


The First Hunter

by L3t_U5_D0_That_Aga1n



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), RWBY
Genre: And Similar, Blood and Gore, Don’t copy to another site, Hunters and Hunstmen are different, Two tired old men being bros, awkwardness ensues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-07 14:44:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 77,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L3t_U5_D0_That_Aga1n/pseuds/L3t_U5_D0_That_Aga1n
Summary: A Hunter must Hunt. Above all else, a Hunter. Must. Hunt.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Wide Awake

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

“Dear oh dear, what was it? The Hunt? The Blood? Or the horrible Dream?” But even as he asked, Gehrman knew that the Hunter before him wasn’t entirely sure themselves. Their eyes, hardened by the horrors they’d endured and slain, softened into a sort of confusion. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Gehrman answered for them, bracing his hands against his wheelchair as he rose to his feet. That got a separate reaction; they didn’t move—no, they were too stoic for that—but the Hunter’s eyes did widen in surprise (which was actually quite comical. They’d been faced by the worst the Cosmos had to offer, but an old man rising from his chair. Truly, that’s out of this world).

The First Hunter rose to his full height, standing steady, even on his barely used peg leg. He could feel the Dream shift and churn, feel the Moon’s harsh rays beat down upon him. “It always,” he said, reaching for the ancient blade strapped to his hip, “comes down to the hunters’ helper to clean up after these sorts of messes.”

In one fluid, practiced motion, he swung his blade in a diagonal arc, bringing it around to latch onto the staff folded on his back. What followed was a familiar series of _CLICKS_ and _CREAKS_ emitted by his Burial Blade that both soothed his soul and made his blood boil.

“Tonight,” he sighed, an age-old tingle running down his spine, “Gehrman joins the Hunt.”

The Hunter gained their bearings by that point, jumping backwards and pulling out…a Whirligig Saw. Gehrman couldn’t help but smile thinly at the weapon; where oh where did they get their hands on that old thing?

The Hunter ran forward, connecting the saw blade with the handle, raising it over head, its blades whirring and sparking. But Gehrman, for all his many, many faults, was experienced, and spry. He stepped forward with his good leg, swinging his blade horizontally, then harshly pulling it forward, sinking it into the Hunter’s back, halting their assault. Crimson essence flowed out from the Hunter’s wound, that damned, addictive, coppery scent wafting into Gherman’s nostrils, setting his mind aflame.

But Gehrman was never one to get lost in lust—well, bloodlust, at least. So, he pushed such thoughts aside, stepping forward and striking the Hunter with his palm, forcing a rough cry out of them as they sank deeper into his blade.

The Hunter, though, was not some docile lay about. Within seconds of their cry, they raised their gun—an Evelyn, of all things—and fired at Gherman’s bad leg. He was quick to dodge the projectile, but distraction served its purpose, allowing the Hunter to scurry away, sinking a Blood Vial into their thigh.

Their reprieve did not last long. Gehrman leapt forward, swinging his blade upwards. They dodged, predictably, but were unable to keep Gehrman’s downward slash from sinking into their shoulder. They were, however, much quicker to the draw, firing off two bullets into Gehrman’s chest. He stepped back with a grunt, wounds already closing. This, however, allowed the Hunter to begin a more aggressive assault. They switched out their Whirligig Saw for a Saw Spear, keeping it in its shortened form for a fast flurry of slashes.

Gehrman gave it his best, but his scythe was not suitable for such a close assault. So, he leapt back, snapping his blade off of its staff and pulling out his firearm. The Hunter realizes their mistake, but alas, was already committed to their swing, and unable to defend against the spread of bullets sinking into their flesh, forcing them to their knees.

In a flash, Gehrman is before the downed Hunter, sinking his free hand into their flesh. He can hear their ragged gasp and see them feebly raise their gun. Thus, Gehrman clenched his fist in their bowels—not really caring what he was grabbing—and pulled his arm back, blood and viscera spraying outwards, drenching him in crimson.

The Hunter’s eyes, already weak, grew dull, and they fell to the ground with a soft _THUD_. Gehrman stared at the corpse as it vanished into mist, shaking his head over their pointless struggle. It always ended like this; no matter who they were, what their desires. They always ended up dead at his feet.

And then the Dream shifted.

Gehrman gasped as he found himself back at the base of the tree, his transformed scythe in his hands, his wounds fully healed as if they’d never existed. Gehrman stilled, disbelieving of what had occurred. It was only when the Moon’s rays seared his flesh that he realized that he was not dreaming within the Dream. The Hunter had changed it themselves. Indeed, not moments after, they entered the field once more, homing in on Gehrman, Evelyn and Saw Spear in hand. Their eyes hard and focused.

Gehrman readied himself for another duel, stamping down the small voice that begged him to lay down his arms and beg for death. Even if he were allowed to do so, he wouldn’t. This Hunter before him did not deserve to suffer so for the sins of him and his peers.

This next clash, and most of the subsequent ones, went on longer than the first, both combatants proving to be extra cautious, only striking when they were sure they would able to retreat just as quickly. The Hunter still died; due to either arrogance, desperation, bad luck, or the still present gap in their skills. But the Dream would always churn in their favor.

Gehrman, despite his inner turmoil, actually found himself having a bit of fun. Briefly, if he concentrated, he could pretend that he wasn’t trapped in a Nightmare of his own making. He could pretend he was still in the Waking World, testing the mettle of new Hunters, to ensure they could properly slay the Beasts that plagued the land.

But then, the Moon’s rays burned his eyes, and he was reminded of his duty. He did his best, but Its sheer _presence_ burrowed into his skull, until he could scarcely think of anything else but _It_. He unclipped his blade, using his new free hand to fire wildly at the Hunter, forcing them back. Then, Gehrman turned to the Moon. His vision swam, and he could see Its silhouette, Its inky black tendrils swaying violently as It stared into his very being.

Gehrman hunched over, growling and snarling as foreign energy was forced into his body. Swirling and churning his Blood. Idly, he felt bullets strike against his body, and the Hunter even snuck in one solid slash across his back. That galvanized Gehrman; for as strong as the grip It had over him, his body was still his own.

He arched his back, glaring and howling at the Moon, at _It_. For once, it acquiesced his request, leaving Gehrman to shape the forcibly given energy as he wished. And he knew just how to use it.

He turned to the Hunter, who held their spear horizontally, defensively. With a wicked grin, Gehrman disappeared in a burst of mist, reappearing before the Hunter, slashing his blade downward. To their credit, the Hunter was able to avoid the attack, but their counterattack—a shot fired from their Evelyn—missed the mark as Gehrman vanished once more.

Thus began a much deadlier dance. Gehrman, by virtue of having mobile superiority, was able to flit in and out, drawing blood and retreating before the Hunter could properly retaliate. But the Hunter was no fool. The good ones never were.

It took some doing, but the Hunter was able to adapt. As often as Gehrman struck, they were able to dodge, and better still, strike before Gehrman could mount a retreat.

But neither could keep this up forever. Gehrman especially—for he knew, should the Hunter die, they would just come back. His only hope was delaying the inevitable long enough that the Hunter before him well and truly gave up their rebellion. An admittedly unlikely event, but it was all Gehrman had to work towards.

With that in mind, Gehrman developed a plan. A heinous plan (which was saying something), but one that would break the Hunter, nonetheless.

He bent over once more, calling upon the well of energy within him. The Hunter, as he predicted, rushed forward, slashing and stabbing with abandon. But alas, this was not a means to strengthen his body; no, instead of internalizing the energy, he released it, a large wave of energy emanating from his body, blasting the Hunter away.

His gamble worked; the Hunter yet lived. Transforming his blade back into a scythe, Gehrman dashed forward, scythe aimed to scoop of the Hunter by their chest, with the ultimate goal of crucifying them, healing them periodically enough so that they didn’t die, but were still in constant, delirious pain. Steeling his heart, Gehrman reached the Hunter, swinging his blade upwards.

_CLICK-BANG_

Gehrman gasped as a bullet lodged itself into his collarbone, forcing him back. Still, he couldn’t help but smirk at the Hunter’s effective counterattack.

In the blink of an eye, the Hunter was before Gehrman, and in one smooth motion, sunk their hand through one of his not yet healed wounds. Then, they hesitated. Gehrman could see it in their eyes; they softened, losing a bit of their resolve.

Gehrman chuckled—more of a bloody gurgle, really—and raised his right arm, poised to strike.

That did the trick. The Hunter growled, their determination returning, and reared their arm back with a loud _SQUELCH_, blood and viscera pouring out of Gehrman’s wound.

The First Hunter fell back, barely registering his body impacting the ground. “The night, and the dream, were long,” he whispered, as his body started to vanish into mist. As he finally left the Dream.

The only thing that spoiled it was the Moon turning dark red; no doubt due to Its rage. Gehrman had a great deal of regrets—entering a contract with It at Master Wilhem’s request, making the Doll, so much to do with Maria—but it was the knowledge that he’d leave the Hunter to Its mercy that left him with the most shame.

But he did not dwell on it, for he was truly, finally, _free_.

**/+/+/+/+/**

Gehrman awoke with a sneeze. Followed by another, more violent one. By the third, he sat up, furiously rubbing his nose. He then paused, because he couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever felt the urge to sneeze. Following that, he registered a cool breeze tickling his skin—equally strange, because he had not felt the wind since he’d become trapped within the Dream.

Finally, he opened his eyes, and his heart sank. Before him was a dark, expansive forest. Much like the woods surrounding Byrgenwerth, they gave him an indescribable feeling of dread; as though the secrets hiding within were just waiting for the chance to swallow him into their mad depths as they had so many others.

And, of course, where would he be, without the Moon’s cool light bearing down upon him.

Rage welled up within him, and he shot to his feet, shouting, “Have I not performed my duties you Monster?! What more…must I…do?” he trailed off into short gasps. For above him, high in the sky, was the Moon. But not as he remembered it.

This Moon was white as snow—no hint of Its slimy presence, no eyeless gaze glaring down at him—and shattered, half of it whole, the other half floating close by, as if held together by invisible strings.

Gehrman gasped loudly, stumbling back, only to fall due to an unfamiliar weight on his right leg. Slowly, his eyes trailed down his body (which was nude, but that wasn’t really important at the moment) landing just above his right knee. And then going further, down his shin, and ending at his right foot.

His mouth ran dry as he hesitantly snaked his arms down his leg. Once past the knee, he softly tapped his shin, shivering as he felt the impact. He pinched the flesh, releasing it to see that his pale skin had turned red. Reaching further, just above the ankle, he dug his fingernails into his flesh, ignoring the pain, dragging them back up his leg, only letting go when he drew blood.

He brought his hands up to his face, staring at the blood dripping down them. But he was still unconvinced; this could all be a cruel prank, after all. A way for It to remind him who was in charge. Thus, he brought his fingers to his lips, darting his tongue out to taste the crimson liquid. Only to immediately draw back upon tasting it, for it _was_ his blood. Just to make sure, his dragged his nails across his chest, and tasted the same. That convinced him, because for all their tricks, Great Ones could not truly simulate the taste, the smell, the feel of human blood.

Then, he did something he had not truly done in years. He smiled. He smiled, and laughed; a mad, barking mockery of laughter, but laughter all the same. How else could a man such as him express joy?

He laughed so hard and so long, that he was forced to lie down on the ground, taking deep, wheezing breaths. He sighed, “Is this Heaven?” He sincerely hoped so; but then, if it was, then why was he alone? Surely, if this truly was Paradise, his old comrades would be there to welcome him?

“OoOooh,” a sibilant voice moaned from his left.

The First Hunter turned, scowling as the ground—covered in tall, dark-green grass—bubbled away, tiny pale, emaciated golems rising from the void. “Ugh,” he spat, “are you so obsessed with us that you’d follow us beyond the grave?” He mused that the Helpers appearance meant that, even in death, Great Ones held a grip over Mankind. But given the apparent nonexistence of his jailer, he couldn’t really find it in him to care.

The golems bowed their heads, moaning apologetically. They then sank back into the ground, and Gehrman held the foolish hope that they were gone. But then the returned, a bundle of clothes in their tiny, misshapen hands. They held the bundle out, staring at him expectantly.

Gehrman frowned back at them, until his recognized his old top hat—collapsed—atop the pile. He further recognized the bundle as being his clothes—his original Hunter’s garb. He looked down at his naked body, grunting as his self-inflicted wounds had already healed, leaving nary a mark. Thus, he accepted the clothes, muttering a quick, bemused ‘Thank you’ (which sent the Helpers into a tizzy).

Once dressed, only stumbling a couple times on his regained limb, he turned back to the Helpers, to dismiss them. Only to falter as they held out more items for him; his Burial Blade and firearm.

He stared at his blade as it gleamed in the moonlight. He shook his head tiredly, “A Hunter must hunt, even in death, is that it?”

The Helpers (those with eyes, at least) stared up at him with something akin to pity. He growled, quickly swiping the weapons from their bony fingers. He strapped his firearm and bandolier on first, creating bullets with the generously provided Quicksilver casings.

Then, he moved onto his Burial Blade, only to pause upon catching his reflection. He looked…younger. Not drastically so, but younger than he should have been. Perhaps about as old as he’d been when he first entered Yharnam. Curious, but another point towards this being Paradise—although, what did it say about him that Paradise involved more death?

“ARRWOOOOH!” a wolf—be it an actual animal, or a Beast—howled into the night. It howled again, followed by a few more similar, different howls. A pack, and they were getting closer.

Gehrman sighed as the Helpers vanished from sight. “What luck,” he snidely muttered, turning to face the increasingly louder wolves. He decided to start off with just the blade and his firearm, get a feel for his healed and younger body.

Then, finally, the wolves arrived—four of them. And what he saw made him pause.

These wolves were not like he was expecting; other than the black fur, they looked like nothing he recognized. These wolves, though bounding in on all fours, stood up on their hindlegs upon approaching him. Further unlike the Beasts he was used to, these wolves had a great deal more muscle-mass than the nigh-skeletal monsters of Yharnam. The differences were only further compounded by the bone-white spikes (which Gehrman suspected to actually be bones) sticking out from their limbs and back, and a white, almost sculpted mask with red marking covering their snouts.

One of the wolves, the one in the lead, roared, charging forward.

Gehrman tensed, but made no move to dodge. Only when the wolf was just feet away, claws raised up to slash him to ribbons, did Gehrman react. He aimed his firearm at the wolf’s chest, firing a buckshot into its chest in order to set-up a visceral attack.

Only that didn’t happen.

Instead of staggering to the floor, allowing Gehrman the opportunity to rip out its entrails, the bullets tore a massive hole in the wolf’s body. And instead of blood pouring out from the wounds, black smoke floated upward, dissipating into the air. The First Hunter stared quizzically at his firearm.

Two of the other Wolfs roared, rushing forward to avenge their fallen kin. Gehrman blew a hole into one of them, thus leading to the possibility that it was not a fluke, and bisected the other—again, a much easier feat than he believed possible; he just meant to shove it away to test his gun once more.

The final wolf proved more cautions than its kin; circling Gehrman, who stood at the ready. However, before it could strike, another loud howl echoed through the woods. The wolf’s ears twitched, but it eventually snarled, bolting towards the other howl.

Gehrman grunted, keeping an eye out in case the beast decided to double-back for a rudimentary sneak-attack. When no such attack came, he turned his attention to the three corpses around him, nonplussed to discover that the bodies were dissolving into black mist. He poked one of the wolves’ limbs with his blade, and once more sunk it deeper in than he intended, the tip of his sword embedding into the dirt.

He huffed, leaning forward to wrench it free. This, however, led to some of that black smoke filtering up his nose and into his lungs. He immediately abandoned his task, taking another whiff.

It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant smell. At least, compared to how bad Yharnam;s sewers (and streets and homes and woods and…well, everything) could get. But what struck him as odd was how _inhuman_ it smelt. All Beast blood still smelled human. Even Ashen Blood—the noxious, viscous muck that flowed through the unfortunate victims of Old Yharnam’s particular Scourge—had a hint of that addictive, coppery scent.

This fog…it lacked that. It didn’t even smell like ‘normal’—those that lacked Yharnam’s ‘special’ blood—people or animals. Rather, it did, but it still lacked a fundamental aspect of those creatures. Some indescribable essence that…that denoted them as _living_.

A distant howl broke him from his thoughts. He stepped away from the corpse, which were more than half-way dissolved, staring in the direction of the howl. If he focused, well and truly focused, his hearing, he could just barely register gunfire.

With a mirthless smirk, the First Hunter strode forward, beginning the Hunt anew.

**/+/+/+/+/**

**A/N: So, this is a thing…Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Beasts in Men’s Clothing

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

The wolf—or whatever it was—was not a stealthy creature. It recklessly burst through whatever barriers blocked its way, leaving a very clear path for Gehrman to follow. A standard beginning to a Hunt, all things considered.

What was not standard was the fact that the lone beast’s trail eventually conjoined with that of a pack at least fifty strong (he had to give up counting after reaching that number).

The Beasts that he was used to were _never_ so social. Certainly, a Beast never harmed another Beast, and they were willing to share territory if they had to. But never before had he laid witness to such a large group.

All the while, the sound of gunfire grew louder and louder.

It must have been quite the group, Gehrman mused, that all these monsters felt the need to converge upon them.

The trail came to an end at a small cliff, and Gehrman came to a stop at its edge. At the cliff’s bottom—which wasn’t all that far down, he could make it with a few careful leaps—was a large group of those wolves, as expected. What was most certainly _not_ expected was the lone woman they were all surrounding. From the clifftop, even with his better eyesight compared to normal men, he could only see that they were wearing a bright white cloak (an odd choice for a Hunt), under which was a much more sensibly colored black outfit.

He couldn’t exactly make them out, but her weapons seemed to be a pistol—which did _not_ tear through the wolves like his firearm did, merely pushing them back—and a knife—which also did _not_ slash the wolves to ribbons as his own blade did—attached to a chain, which she swung with the grace of a dancer. Unfortunately, all that grace didn’t seem to be helping her, as the wolves were slowly encircling her, inch by inch.

“Hahahahaha!” a shrill voice screeched with laughter. Gehrman jerked his head towards it, narrowing his eyes at the two figures staring down at the woman from a nearby hill. One of them was a hulking beast of a man, with dark hair, olive skin, and, like an idiot, only wearing a short-sleeved black shirt. The other one—much lankier and paler than his compatriot—was dressed a bit more sensibly—but again, he was wearing white. The smaller one was the source of the laughter, jeering and pointing at the woman below them; the taller one was much more stoic, merely looking on silently, injecting a vial into his arms.

Now, Gehrman was still very much confused as to _where_ exactly he was. But regardless of that, this…hazing ritual would not stand. He’d come across it a few times back in the Waking World; he never lost any sleep over those killings.

Thus, began his careful, rapid descent to assist the young woman. Only for something extraordinary to occur.

A harsh, bright light burst out from the woman. Gehrman, who had made it to the bottom of the cliff, was forced to avert his gaze. Yet even then, the brilliant light seared into his eyes, burning them. Still, for a man who was forced under the Moon’s yoke for nigh-on-eternity, a little bright light was nothing to write home about.

What was interesting was what he saw when the light died down. Gehrman was not a man easily shocked; he’d seen and done far too much. But he was dumbstruck to see that _every_ _single_ _wolf_ was turned to stone.

He returned his gaze to the woman, who was hunched over, only for the lanky man’s jeering hoots to claim his attention once more. He was clapping and hopping in place, dramatically gesturing at the woman, his stoic companion staring on passively. Gehrman found himself relaxing a touch; so, it wasn’t so much a cruel hazing, so much as a stupid training exercise.

Well, maybe he wouldn’t kill the two men. Maybe just slit their wrists and string them up by their toes for half-an-hour.

But then, in a burst of speed reserved for only the most powerful Beasts, the hulking man leapt forward towards the woman. She tried to dodge, but was too slow, and the brute landed a solid punch against the woman’s skull. She fell backwards, and he struck her once more, sending her sliding into the ground, face first.

Gehrman sprinted forward before the second strike connected, switching his firearm to fire off a whole bullet, as opposed to his preferred buckshot, for the extra range. He fired off two rounds into the brute’s body, lifting his blade high overhead to strike against his head.

Only to come to a screeching halt as, though his bullets impacted the brute, they did not draw blood. To be certain, he stumbled a bit from the hits, turning around and staring at Gehrman with equal parts anger and disbelief, but no blood.

The brute snarled wordlessly, turning to fully face the First Hunter. Gehrman regained his bearings, hopping backwards and aiming his firearm forward. The brute stomped forward, “Wh—”

_BANG_

Gherman shot him in the jaw, gritting his teeth as, once again, the bullet _bounced off him_. Not even a scratch. The brute’s head did snap back, but he brought it back down, glare deepening. “W—”

_BANG_

Another bullet cut him off, and other bullet ricocheted off him. Gehrman didn’t even give the brute another chance to speak, shooting three more bullets—one more in the jaw, two in the chest. But to no avail.

Still, he was affected by the projectiles, given the way stumbled back, nursing his jaw and chest with a murderous glare. Gehrman wanted to scream; what kind of Nightmare had he stumbled into? Where Beasts tear apart at the seams and men have skin tougher than steel?

“I believe,” the lanky man said, suddenly appearing from over the brute’s shoulder (a cursory glance revealed that he was hanging off the ground, holding onto his compatriot’s neck), “that you’re—” 

_BANG_

Gehrman snarled as, once again, his bullet, bouncing off the lanky one’s forehead, _failed to wound his target_.

The lanky one started hooting with laughter, flipping over the brute and landing before him. “Well, I was going to say—”

_BANG_

The lanky man stumbled back into the brute’s back. Now _he_ fixed Gehrman a dark look. “…Take five,” he sneered to the brute.

The brute sneered back, but acquiesced, stepping aside—and towards the downed woman. But before Gehrman could make a move, the lanky man clicked his tongue, and, to compound to Gehrman’s shock, what he thought was a belt unfurled from the lanky man’s waist, shooting out and cutting off the brute’s path. The First Hunter glared at the not-belt, surprised to see that it was a scorpion’s tail, dripping with poison. Of all the Beastly accoutrements Gehrman had seen, a scorpion wasn’t one he’d ever encountered.

The lanky man looked over his shoulder, only to pause, smiling thinly at Gehrman. Gehrman, having come to the conclusion that shooting the men would do nothing, and not wanting to make the first move, stayed still. The lanky man bowed grandly, returning his attention to the brute. “Not so fast, Hazel. I didn’t try anything when you were having your fun.”

“We have a mission to accomplish,” the now-named Hazel growled, staring at the downed woman.

“She’ll still be there when I’m done!” Indeed, the woman didn’t appear to be in the state to be moving—Gehrman wasn’t even sure if she was still alive.

Hazel growled, but moved away, nonetheless.

The lanky man’s tail retracted, hanging over his head. He flicked his wrists, and from his bracers, two pairs of blades extended out, completing his scorpion motif. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, face twisting into a deranged facsimile of a smile, “but I hope you pack as much of a punch as that gun of yours!”

Gehrman was silent, only narrowing his eyes in reply. He did, however, switch his firearm back to buckshot mode.

The scorpion-man crouched down low, licking his lips and sliding his blades against each other, creating sparks. Then, he burst forward, arms and tail drawn back, poised to strike. Gehrman raised his firearm to retaliate, but his foe was agile, ducking out of aim. Before he could attempt to readjust, Gehrman had to hop to the side to avoid a steel blade and poison-tipped tail. The lanky man growled lowly, lifting his free hand and pointing his closed fist at Gehrman, giving him a clear view of the two cylinders at the end of his bracers. More like long barrels, really.

Gehrman gasped, diving to the side aa a pair of loud _BANGS_ sounded from the bracer, two bullets zooming out of the barrels attached to the man’s bracers. Never before did Gehrman think the term ‘firearm’ could be taken so literally.

Snarling, Gehrman rose to his feet, shooting his own weapon at his opponent. The man laughed, flipping in the air to avoid the spread shot. A bad move, since it left the man open to another blast from Gehrman’s gun. He actually spun in the air from the impact of the pellets, crashing to the ground, and laughing all the way. Even as Gehrman sprinted towards him, Burial Blade raised high.

The man lifted himself up just enough for his tail to shoot forward, the tip of it glistening in the moonlight (curiously, the man’s eyes seemed to change color, growing brighter). And still he laughed, even as Gehrman holstered his firearm and shot his arm out to grab the extra appendage.

He only shut up when the First Hunter embedded his Burial Blade in his chest.

Something curious happened then. There was a sound akin to shattering glass, and black energy crackled along the man’s body. He gurgled, blood spewing from his mouth as his eyes widened in disbelief. His tail—still in Gherman’s grasp—twitched erratically. The First Hunter merely grunted, pressing his right foot on the soon-to-be corpse, and wrenching both hands back with all his might. The tail came off with an audible _SNAP_, and the blade wrenched free with a wet _GLURCH_, spraying blood upward and drenching Gehrman in crimson.

He let out a deep, shaky breath as the dead man’s warm blood splashed onto his face. Oh, sweet Blood, how it sings. Yet, there was something about this song. This man’s blood, it wasn’t like anything he could recall. It was not, as he’d suspected, the blood of a Beast, or of a Hunter on the verge of Beast hood. It was human, no doubt, but there was something to it that made it…special.

He heard a ragged gasp to his right, turning to see Hazel staring slack-jawed at him, fear clear in his eyes. “W-What the hell…?”

Gehrman sniffed, raising his blade to eye level and wiping some blood off with his finger. Only to find yet another surprise—oh, but the night was full of them. His Burial Blade, it was dull, and cracked. As if he’d spent the last day striking a brick wall. Curious, for it had its otherworldly shine…just before he killed the scorpion-man. Perhaps something to do with that energy? Regardless, he was confident that he could kill Hazel before the blade broke beyond use. He then performed what he’d originally set out to do, running his free hand along the edge of his blade, drinking the blood he collected in his palm.

It had the desired effect; Hazel paled, stumbling backwards as he held his hands up in front of him. His eyes then darted to the woman, still lying face-down in the dirt. Gehrman calmly moved over in front of her, transforming his weapon into its scythe form, holding it high overhead.

Hazel reacted quickly, pulling out a vial—which was not filled with blood, as Gehrman originally suspected, but some sort of blue light. He jabbed it into his arms, and his entire body began to glow blue. And as Gehrman bent down low, bringing his scythe back, Hazel spun on his heel, crashing through the stone beasts and disappearing into the woods.

The First Hunter frowned as the hulking man vanished from sight unclipping his blade from its handle after a long moment. “Smart man,” he said with a light chuckle. He turned to the downed woman, crouching down and turning her over.

“…Aaaahh,” she sighed weakly as he laid her on her back. As Gehrman predicted, her pure white coat was covered in not only her blood, but dirt. Her face was a bloody mess of bleeding gashes, obscuring her features—save for the fact that she had dark hair. Some of the hair—drenched red in her own blood—was matted down harder one the left side of her face. Gehrman brushed it aside, frowning as he saw that her left eye was gone—burst apart, by the look of it—a gaping, bloody, dirt-packed hole in its place.

“Taaaiii,” she gasped deliriously, her good eye shutting tighter, “Qrrrrow, Yannnng, Ruuubyyy,” she slurred out names, “Sooorryy…”

The First Hunter sighed, removing his hand from her face and leaning back. She’d die, he suspected, before long. A shame, for one so young, and with so many to leave behind, apparently. He’d try and heal her, but his medical knowledge was limited at best, beyond jamming a blood vial into your body (and even then, who knew what internal injuries she’d suffered).

“OooOoooOoooh,” came to low moaning of the Little Ones. The First Hunter turned around, grunting as half-a-dozen of the pale imps appeared from the ground. There were more bundles of cloth in their hands, which they haphazardly dropped onto the ground. The cloths unfurled, and lo and behold, dozens of blood vials rolled towards him.

He huffed, pointing to the lanky man’s corpse. “If you really want to make yourselves useful, you could drain that one.”

They nodded fervently, disappearing back into the ground with the vials. They—along with dozens more—swiftly returned to this plane of reality, surrounding the corpse. There were too many of them to properly see what they were doing, but the loud series of _SQUELCHES_ and _SQUIRTS_ told him enough.

“AaaaAaahh,” a moan sounded from his right. He looked down at the lone Helper beside him, furrowing his brow at the bell it held up to him.

“Oh? What’s this then?” He grabbed the bell, lifting it up to his eyes. He immediately recognized it as one of the Choir’s inventions—a truly extraordinary device, whose dulcet rings were capable of healing all but the most fatal…wounds.

He eyed the Helper critically; but it’s eyeless gaze offered no insight into its thoughts. He decided to let the matter drop, reaching over the woman and flicking his wrist, a lone, pleasing chime echoing around them.

His arm numbed as the bell drew its energy from his blood. A ring of pale light emanated from it, washing over the woman. Her moans rose in pitch, but within seconds, the light vanished, her noises with it. Gehrman lowered the bell, cleaning off the woman’s face with an untarnished piece of her cloak. The blood soaked away, revealing a myriad of crisscrossing, pink scars marring an otherwise pretty face.

The gaping hole where her left eye should be was still there, but the blood flow seemed to stop, at least. He still had no idea what he was going to do with her; but at least she was less likely to die before sunrise.

As he was doing his best to clean up the woman’s face, he noticed something odd in her hair. He brushed it aside, tilting his head at the small gray…thing clipped onto her ear, which blinked green at specific intervals. More curious than he’d felt in years, he pulled the item off the woman’s ear, examining it further. There was a spongy, rounded cone on the inside of the item, which Gehrman assumed was supposed to provide some measure of comfort as it rested on one’s ear. Shrugging, he put it on himself.

“Summer! Come in, Summer!” a man’s voice suddenly shouted in his head.

Gherman gasped, tearing the item off. What kind of sorcery…? Fleetingly, he was reminded of the Great Ones, who would whisper their secrets into the ears of the willing—and unwilling. But Gehrman had spent a great deal of time among the timeless beings from the Cosmos. And this was not their work.

Thus, he took a closer look at the device in his hands. And upon his more studious observation, he noticed a small circular groove on the outer side of it, surrounding the blinking light. He pressed the groove, humming when it clicked. After that, he put the item back on his ear.

“Summer?! Summer, you cut off, are you alright?!” the man shouted once more.

Gehrman hummed, pressing the groove once more.

“Summer? Summer, speak up!”

Gehrman pressed the groove once more, this time saying, “This is not Summer.”

He released the groove, met only by silence. Then, the man’s voice returned, grave and solemn. “Who is this?” It might have sounded intimidating, but Gehrman had faced far worse disembodied voices.

“My name is Gehrman. The woman you call Summer lays injured at my feet.” The man gasped, prompting Gehrman to add, “I saved her from the men that did it to her.” He spared her a glance, “I healed her to the best of my ability, but she lost an eye.”

“…Okay, okay, okay, okay,” the man said rapidly. “German, was it?”

“Gehrman.”

“Right. Listen, just stay put, alright? We’ve got a lock on your location, a Bullhead will be there in ten minutes. Just sit still for…ten minutes, alright.”

Gehrman wondered what good a bull’s head would do, but nevertheless said, “Very well,” and took the device off his ear (just because he was used to hearing voices didn’t mean he liked it).

Gehrman let out a breath, propping his chin in his hand. He reached for his Burial Blade, raising it to eye level and frowning at its dull and chipped blade. “Whatever happened to you?” he muttered.

“OooOoooh,” the Helpers moaned once more. Gehrman gave them his attention, pleased to see the full blood vials spilling out of their grasps. Along with, to his pleasant surprise, his workshop repair tools. “My oh my,” he chuckled, “You lot have certainly improved your game.”

The Helper’s moaned joyously, reverently dropping the items at his feet. Thus, Gehrman set about repairing his damaged blade while waiting for this ‘bull’s head’.

For all that he cursed his fate, there was one aspect of the Blood that Gehrman positively adored; it made repairs so much easier. Or course, you couldn’t just slit your wrist, pour blood on a sword, and hope for the best. No, there was still a general maintenance one need to perform—sharpening the edges, tightening loose bolts, greasing joints. But what the Blood did do was offer a layer of…protection, of sorts; keeping the wear-and-tear of use from affecting the weapon for much longer than usual. And, in the case of Siderite-based weapons like the Burial Blade, restored their otherworldly sharpness. Something his weapon sorely needed, for reasons he couldn’t quite understand.

It must have had to do with that strange energy he saw wash over the lanky man as he died. Some sort of…protective barrier. It would explain why he wasn’t harmed by gunfire. A useful ability; if only it was so effective against stab wounds.

Of course, the revelation just begged the question of _where_ Gehrman was. Never before had he seen or heard of such an ability. Nor of men with scorpion tails—and only that—attached to their bodies. Nor, he gazed at the woman, had he heard of the ability to emit a harsh bright light from your body and turn surrounding beasts to stone (something he really should follow up on, when given the chance).

_VRRRRVRRRVRRRVRRRVRRR_

A low whirring far to his left broke Gehrman from his musings. He instantly rose to his feet, blade and firearm in hand. Gehrman narrowed his eyes, staring out into the distance.

Then, far in the horizon, he saw something extraordinary (which was saying something). There, high in the air, was a …thing flying towards them. It looked like a great, misshapen metal bird—what with its bulky, box-like body, two thin wings spreading out from that body, with what looked like two spires at the end of them, and what looked like a glass beak at its front.

The Bull’s Head—for what else could it be?—came to an abrupt halt overhead, and Gehrman could now see that the whirring noise was coming from the spires at the end of the wings. The machine lowered to the ground, large gusts of wind spreading out from it, the whirring sound emanating from its spires quieting, but still present.

As it landed, it turned around, so that its back end was facing Gehrman. When it landed, there another, different, whirring sound, and a piece of the Bull’s Head lowered onto the grass like a drawbridge.

Then, a blonde, pale man in a black uniform, with a gray wolf’s tail jumped down from the still lowering mechanism.

Gehrman immediately fired his bullet at the Beast-man, rushing forward as his target dropped to the ground. Only to jump back as another man—with dark skin, bald, and lacking any Beastly features—jumped in front of Gehrman, slamming a mace into the ground. “What the hell?!” a familiar voice screamed.

Gehrman blinked, lowering his weapons, as he narrowed his eyes at the man before him, “You are the man who I spoke to earlier?”

The other man relaxed a touch, raising his weapon to hold with both hands. “Yes. You’re Geerman?”

“Gehrman.”

“Sure.”

By then, the Beast-man—assisted by a red-haired woman (also lacking a Beastly attribute) who had exited the Bull’s Head, had walked over to stand aside his fellow. He glared at Gehrman, fire in his eyes, “The hell was that for?!”

Seeing that the other two normal-looking humans didn’t seem to care that there was a man with an actual, moving, furry tail standing beside them, Gehrman decided to lie, saying, “My apologies. I am…jumpy, around people that leap at me from…vehicles.”

The three of them narrowed their eyes at him, before the woman clicked her tongue. “Well, I’d be jumpy too, if I looked like you did.”

Gehrman wondered what she meant, looking down at himself. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“You’re covered in blood, man.” The tailed man said exasperatedly.

“Ah, yes.”

The trio stared at Gehrman incredulously. He stared blankly back.

“Aaaaahhh…” Summer moaned.

“Shit, Summer!” The woman shouted, her and the wolf-man running towards her. Upon reaching her, she said, “Oh! She’s actually…looking okay. Well, minus the eye.”

“I said I healed her a bit,” the First Hunter mumbled beneath his breath.

The bald man shook his head. “Er, you said you killed one of her attackers?”

“Yes,” Gehrman stood straighter, giving the man before him his full attention. “A man with a scorpion tail. His companion—a giant of a man named Hazel—ran away.”

“Hazel,” the bald man tested the name against his tongue, “Can you give a description?” 

“Get me some ink and paper and I can draw you his face,” Gehrman replied.

The bald man nodded, eyeing his companions as they carefully carried Summer into the Bull’s Head. “Later. Where’s the other one?”

Gehrman gestured to the corpse behind him. The man looked over, pulling a face. “W-What the hell did you do to him?” the man asked, disgust clear in his voice.

Gehrman turned, eyeing the Little Ones’—who, strangely, had all disappeared—handy work. It would appear that the eager little things went a touch overboard, tearing the body apart in their effort to drain it of its blood. He was about to answer that it wasn’t his fault but stopped himself. The Little Ones, though simple creatures, did not act without reason. If they’d disappeared, then they must not have wanted to meet these Hunters. Curious, because if there was one thing that the Little Ones loved, it was Hunters.

“…I killed him,” Gehrman eventually stated. At the bald man’s horrified stare (which was yet another curiosity of the current situation; what Hunter would balk at such a scene?), Gehrman shrugged, “I’m thorough…I can also draw him, if that’s the issue,” he added after another moment of stunned silence.

The bald man’s stare intensified, until he finally regained his composure, setting his face in stone. He gruffly turned around, walking towards the Bull’s Head, “Come aboard,” was all he said.

Gehrman followed, only briefly panicking as he felt the machine rise into the air, carrying them far away.

**/+/+/+/+/**

**A/N: Quick question, how old is Ozpin supposed to be? I’m not talking about the whole reincarnation thing; I’m talking about the physical body of Ozpin. He looks pretty young, but I honestly have no fucking clue and I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure it out. I mean, he’s headmaster of a prestigious academy (so at a minimum he’s got to be, like, 30), but was he Headmaster when Team STRQ was at Beacon? Anyway, be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

Like looking in a Funhouse Mirror

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

“I shouldn’t have let her go alone,” Taiyang Xiao Long mumbled beneath his breath for what must have been the tenth time in the last half-an-hour, glaring out the bullhead window.

Glynda Goodwitch looked up from her scroll, frowning sympathetically, “Taiyang, you can’t blame yourself for this.”

“She’s right.” Both Glynda and Taiyang turned their attention Ozpin, the current Headmaster of Beacon Academy. He, as he was wont to do, sat with his legs crossed, his cane held across his lap, a mug of coffee—or perhaps cocoa—held firmly in his grasp. “You are not to blame for this,” he continued. “But if you feel the need to blame someone, please, blame me.”

The blonde brawler sighed, shaking his head, “Ozpin, I can’t do that.”

“You most certainly can,” the Headmaster’s amber gaze softened considerably, “I was the one who offered the assignment to Summer. It was my lack of intelligence that lead to her current condition. And, I was the one who allowed her to go alone.”

“No,” Taiyang wrung his hands together. “This…no single person’s the blame. You should have done a better job, yes. But Summer should have waited, or me or Qrow should have gone with her.” He shook his head, “The blame goes all-around.” He then snorted, “”Cept for that guy that saved her life, at least.”

“Yes,” Ozpin hummed, turning his sharp gaze towards Glynda, “What do we know about this man again? This…Ghermin?”

“Er…” Glynda paused, scanning the (sparse) information packet sent by the retrieval team, “Gehrman,” she said carefully, testing the name against her tongue.

“Strange name,” Taiyang mumbled.

“What’s strange is that there is no information on this man,” Glynda replied, furrowing her brows.

“Still?” Ozpin asked, leaning forward with a frown.

“Still,” Glynda repeated.

“Wait, what?” Taiyang asked.

“Now, he hasn’t really been forthcoming, but still,” Glynda furrowed her brow as she looked through the information packet, “there’s nothing in any database about this man. No graduating Academy, no hometown. Birth certificate, family history,” she frowned irritably, “nothing.”

“Maybe he’s some kind of black ops agent?” Taiyang supplied. “Stricken from the records?” In response, Glynda pulled up on of the pictures their team had taken of him—of his rather eccentric and worn outfit. Taiyang blanched, “Never mind…is that blood?”

“Yes,” now Glynda grimaced, “He…tore apart one of the men that attacked Summer.” She gulped, “You don’t want to see those.” She wasn’t a woman easily unnerved, but what happened to that body…it would haunt her mind for a few nights, no doubt.

“The man said he was being…thorough,” Ozpin mused.

“More like barbaric,” Glynda whispered beneath her breath.

“Regardless,” her boss continued, “before a bullhead picked them up, he did heal the majority of Summer’s wounds. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t have done that; or even called the bullhead in the first place.”

“He does have an impressive healing Semblance,” Glynda admitted. “Whatever he’s capable of, he was able to close her wounds—save for her eye—and even mend the worst of her fractures.”

“And for that, I might be forever in his debt,” Taiyang said wearily.

They fell into silence after that. Waiting as the bullhead soared through the night sky towards Vale General Hospital. Taiyang kept on fidgeting, biting his lower lip and screwing his eyes shut; no doubt thanking the Gods that Summer was alive. Ozpin just calmly sipped on his drink as he stared forward at nothing. Glynda, for her part, tried to keep looking back on the meagre information they’d gathered on Gehrman, but was forced to give up, because there was simply nothing there.

Eventually, they reached the hospital, and were ushered out of the bullhead and into the building. Whereupon they met Glade, the point-man of Summer’s retrieval. The bald man inclined his head towards Ozpin and Glynda, before frowning sympathetically at Taiyang. “Summer’s out of surgery,” he said, prompting the blonde to hang his head and sigh in relief, “but she’s still unconscious. One of the doctor’s should still be checking up on her.” He then began leading them to Summer’s room, on the same floor as the Bullhead landing zone, as luck would have it.

Taiyang was silent for a moment, before responding, “To be honest, I could use a couple hours rest myself.”

“We all could,” Glade muttered into his shirt collar.

“And what of Gehrman?” Ozpin asked.

Glade winced, “He’s…standing guard outside Summer’s room.”

“Excuse me?” Glynda asked incredulously.

“Barely even cleaned the blood off of himself,” Glade continued with a shiver.

Glynda wanted to further question the man but held her tongue when they passed the double doors leading to Summer’s room, revealing the enigma in question, sitting in a chair just outside Summer’s room (where a doctor was monitoring her).

She blanched upon seeing that Glade’s comment was true. His clothes—which looked even more aged in-person—still had large swathes of dried blood staining them. Even his hair was more crimson than brown.

“Gods, you weren’t kidding,” Taiyang mumbled in disbelief, “Isn’t this a hospital?”

“A couple nurses tried to tell him that, but the man’s got this stare that just…” he cut himself off with a shiver.

That galvanized Glynda, who set her face into a frown, striding forward towards Gehrman. Taiyang was correct; this _was_ a hospital, and it didn’t matter how odd someone was, there were rules in place that everyone had to follow.

“Good sir,” she said, standing before and looking down her nose at him, “this is a hospital. You cannot be in here like _that_!” she scolded, gesturing to his bloody clothes. Now that she was closer and in-person, she could see just how strange they really were. They…looked like something someone would wear in some sort of historical reenactment. Only they seemed to be the only clothes Gehrman owned, given how faded the colors were around the joints—his cloak, draped around the chair, was a vibrant red, but its edges were frayed an absurd degree.

Yet, for all that, there was an obvious level of care put into the outfit. Carefully stitched patches where the wear-and-tear had taken too heavy a toll. Especially the hat, which Gehrman was fondling on his lap. Then, he looked up at her.

Glynda was not a woman predisposed to fear, but even she had to admit that a chill went down her spine when her eyes met his. They were gray, like a cloud that precedes the storm. But that wasn’t the disturbing part.

There was no life in those eyes. She was used to a variety of looks; admiration, relief, fear, envy, lust on occasion. But Gehrman…he betrayed nothing. No, that wasn’t quite right. There was _nothing_ in his gaze. He was looking at her, true, but he was also looking past her. As if she was barely worth the time of day.

He stared at her; expression unchanging. Then, his lips spread into a thin, predatory smile. “My apologies,” he said in a shockingly smooth baritone, “but I hold the personal belief that, when someone’s life is in danger, hygiene becomes a low priority.”

Glynda did her best to compose herself, but Taiyang burst forward, further knocking her off balance. “You think Summer’s still in danger?!” the blonds asked, darting his head around to seek out potential threats.

“I believe,” Gehrman said calmly, “that the most opportune time to kill your prey is when they are resting.”

“A sound philosophy,” Ozpin said, walking up behind them, “but I can assure you, sir, that…Summer’s…safe…” he trailed off, voice far smaller than Glynda had ever heard from the stoic Headmaster.

Glynda turned, confused and alarmed to see her boss’s eyes opened as wide as they could be, his face growing a touch paler. She heard a low _creak_, and a quick look down revealed that his grip on his cane had increased so much that his knuckles were stark-white, and the item was starting to _bend_.

“…Dear oh dear.” That was Gehrman. Glynda returned her attention to him, seeing a much more focused scrutiny in his eyes as he stared at Ozpin. He stood up, and Glynda found herself craning her neck a bit to look up at him—another rarity of the night.

Gehrman tilted his head as he peered closer at Ozpin. The headmaster, for his part, broke out of his stupor, meeting Gehrman’s gaze as color returned to his face.

“Headmaster,” Glade slowly said, “do you…know each other?”

Ozpin didn’t reply; barely made a sound. Then, he blinked, breaking from his trance. “No,” he quickly said, still staring at Gehrman, “we’ve never met.”

Glade exchanged a glance with Taiyang, and then both turned to her, expectant. Glynda wanted to scoff, as if she had any insight as to…whatever was happening before them.

But before she could attempt to figure anything out, the door to Summer’s room opened. “Can I assume one of you is Mrs. Rose’s spouse?” the doctor said.

“That’s me,” Taiyang said, instantly shifting his focus. He entered the room, beginning a quick conversation with the doctor. The tension seemed to leave with him, as both Ozpin and Gehrman seemed much more relaxed than seconds prior.

“The stars are lovely this time of night,” Ozpin suddenly said contemplatively.

Gehrman cocked a brow, “…I’m afraid, in my case, the stars have lost their luster.”

“Oh, I think you just need a different vantage point.”

Gehrman grunted, “Perhaps I do.” He then spun on his heel, attaching his cloak with a flourish. He flicked his wrist, his hat unfolding to its true length, after which he fixed it on his head. He tipped his hat to them, and walked towards the stairwell.

Glynda waited until the man was out of sight before whirling around. “What was _that_?” she asked. Ozpin was silent for a long moment, staring down at the floor with a pensive frown. “Headmaster?” she asked softly.

“Hm? Ah,” he shook his head, “apologies, Glynda.”

“Er, are you,” Glade began slowly, “sure you two haven’t met before?”

“I can assure you, Mr. Yahontov, Gehrman and I have never met before tonight.”

“Then…what was that whole…staring…thing?”

“That?” Ozpin lifted his head with a sigh, “That was…recognition.”

“…Okay, whatever.” Glade said. “And just to make sure, you were telling him you wanted to meet on the roof?”

“Indeed.”

“And I can assume you mean to do this alone.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Absolutely not!” Glynda hissed. “We know nothing about this man!”

“Don’t worry so much Glynda, I’ll be fine.”

“Actually, I don’t think you will be.” As both Ozpin and Glynda stared at him, he elaborated, “We believe he has some sort of storage Semblance.”

“What? I thought he had some sort of healing Semblance?” Glynda asked.

“So did we, but then…. Okay,” Glade took a short breath, “you know how you aren’t allowed to bring weapon’s into hospitals? And how they offer to hold onto your weapons until you leave?” Glynda and Ozpin—neither of whom ever had to use such services given their weapons up, on account of their nontraditional, non-edged, weaponry--nodded. “Well, Gehrman just glared at the nurse before spinning on his heel, exiting the building towards the landing zone, and returning a minute later, sans weapons.”

Glynda frowned; she’d heard of people being protective over their weaponry…“It wasn’t anywhere outside?”

“Terra and Paz both looked; they weren’t lying on the landing pad. They even went to the ground floor, but couldn’t find any evidence that he jumped down, buried them, and jumped back up.”

Glynda shook her head, “But hospitals have clear rules in place for—”

“Again, the man’s got a hell of a stare.”

“He’s not going to hurt me, Glynda?”

“And how can you be so sure?!” she stopped herself just short of shouting. “We know nothing about this man other than he that he butchers’ corpses, and, assumedly, has a Semblance which allows him to easily store and access his weapons. And you want to meet him, alone?!”

“Yes.”

“All because” Glynda ground out. “you ‘recognize’ something in him?”

Headmaster Ozpin fixed her a peculiar stare. The kind of stare she hadn’t been on the receiving end of in a long while. The kind of stare that made grown men and women shiver in their boots and made students feel grossly inadequate. He then looked away holding his cane in both hands. “I will be fine,” he restated, and walked forward towards the stairwell, leaving behind Glynda and her numerous questions.

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman wasn’t kidding about the stars. Ever since he learned what lurked within the darkness of the Cosmos, he couldn’t stomach staring up at the heavenly lights. Good thing the land below held far more interesting lights.

He was not ashamed to admit that he was dumbstruck when he first looked out at the city’s skyline upon exiting the Bull’s head. It was vastly different compared to what he was used to. The buildings were blockier than the ones in Yharnam, and sleeker. Instead of stone, they appeared to be made mostly out of glass and metal. To say nothing of the fact that they were all so _tall_. Even the shortest building touched the clouds.

But that was nothing compared what lay below.

There were these…horseless carriages zooming around on smooth, black streets. People, unafraid of the night—which was probably helped by the fact you couldn’t go five feet without standing under a lamp. And the smell…the air lacked the pungent, coppery scent that Yharnamites adored. Not to say that it was clean air; there was a sulfuric, burning stench that seemed to cling to the air. But anything was better than the stink of Blood, old and new.

And the sounds…again, unlike Yharnam, the night was not filled with the howls of mad beasts, nor the wails of those unfortunate enough to get in their path. It was…quiet. (Mostly; those carriages emitted constant hums and the occasional honk, of all things). Peaceful.

“It is quite a sight isn’t it?” Gehrman looked over his shoulder to see _him_; a fellow victim of the Cosmos. He stopped aside Gehrman, clasping his hands atop his cane as he looked down at the city below, smiling softly. “It’s amazing what people can do when they band together.”

Gehrman’s mind flashed back to darker times. A rainy hamlet and a murdered mother being dragged onto the shore. Yes, people could certainly do amazing, terrible things when they put their minds to it.

They stood there in silence for a moment longer, lost in their thoughts. Gehrman broke the silence, asking, “What is the nature of your curse?”

The other man laughed aloud, “You certainly go straight for the kill.”

The First Hunter shrugged, “I don’t believe in mincing words.”

“No,” the man’s voice lost its amused tone, iron taking its place, “just people.”

“Ah,” Gehrman clicked his tongue, “that wasn’t me.” At the man’s cocked brow, he added, “Well, I did kill the man, but I didn’t tear his body apart.”

“Oh? Then who did?”

In response Gherman held his hand out, snapping his fingers. When nothing happened, he scowled, and snapped his fingers again. And again. He scowled; he knew that they were shy—but this was getting ridiculous!

“Do you…need some help?” the man asked, amusement creeping back into his tone.

Gehrman ignored him, growling beneath his breath, “If you don’t appear within the next five seconds, I will _never_ use your services again!”

In an instant, the ground melted away, half-a-dozen Helpers popping out of the ground, clasping their hands above their wrinkled, misshapen heads and moaning apologetically. Gehrman leaned back with a huff, turning towards his sharply dressed companion. He narrowed his eyes as the man peered closely at the Helpers. No…not at them; around them.

“You can’t see them,” he stated.

The man leaned closer, “I…it’s like there’s a void in space. Constantly shifting and churning.”

“Hmm…you lack the Insight necessary to see them.” Odd, for a man so effused in Cosmic energy.

“Ah,” the man leaned back with a grin, “Something to work on, then?”

“No.” Gehrman gruffly stated, dispelling the Helpers. “That which is seen, can never be unseen.”

The man turned to Gehrman, narrowing his eyes, “I’d rather not stumble around in the dark.”

“What you see lurking in the dark may just stop you dead in your tracks instead,” Gehrman replied. The man hummed lowly, stare intensifying. Gehrman met it with a glare of his own.

The Helpers keened lowly, shaking their heads erratically.

Then, the man smiled, the tension in the air dissipating. “I believe we’re doing this out of order.” He held his hand out, “My name is Ozpin. I am the Headmaster of Beacon Academy.”

Gehrman frowned at the name ‘Beacon Academy’, but shook the offered limb, nonetheless. “Gehrman, a Hunter—the First Hunter, actually—of Yharnam.”

“Yharnam?” Ozpin said with a frown. “I’ve…never heard of such a place,” he grinned bemusedly, “And I’ve been around for quite a long while!”

“How long?” Gehrman asked.

“Oh,” Ozpin sighed, looking back out onto the city, “I stopped keeping track after…three-thousand years. You?”

Gehrman stared wide-eyed at the man before him. _Three-thousand_ years? He quickly collected himself, “Far less than that. Two-hundred, perhaps three-hundred years at most.”

“And yet,” Ozpin leaned closer, “the pull of magic around you feels _far_ older.”

“And, compared to me, the forces that surround you are practically in their infancy.”

His fellow victim pulled back; eyes hard. “My…what a pair we make.”

“Indeed,” Gehrman concurred.

Ozpin pursed his lips, “…Discovering more about ourselves can come later. Am I right in assuming all this,” he gestured to the city, “is new to you?”

“Yes.” Gerhman snorted, “Last I remember, people still used horses to travel.” He furrowed his brow, “And we had no beast-men.”

“Faunus, you mean?”

“Sure,” the First Hunter said with a shrug.

Ozpin clicked his tongue, staring out at the city. He lifted his cane up, pointing forward and down to his left. “See that building, down the street? Three stories, covered in green lights? ” Gehrman stepped closer, nodding as he spotted the building in question. “That’s a public library. You aren’t averse to good-old-fashioned research, are you?”

“Quite the contrary. It’s been _ages_ since I’ve read anything new. I assume I can get there from the main—!” Gehrman cut himself off with a hiss as he felt something warm fall upon his back. He whirled around, only to freeze.

There, peeking out over the horizon, was something he hadn’t seen—hadn’t felt—since he first entered the Dream. That glorious, warm, bright ball of light that signaled the end of the Hunt, and bade peace, if only for a few more hours.

He winced as the sun’s light rose higher, shining in his eyes. But he didn’t dare look away from its warmth. Even as Ozpin hummed sympathetically.

“…Three-hundred years, hm?” Gehrman nodded mutely. “Well, I suppose I’ll leave you to…refamiliarize yourself.” And he did, leaving Gehrman to stare at the celestial body until his eyes finally started to burn.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: I imagine a younger Gehrman sounding like Ardyn from Final Fantasy XV. No idea why, the accents are completely different. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Think of the Children

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth**

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Summer Rose was not used to pain. Rather, she was not used to waking up in pain. It was a source of envy amongst her team and fellow students, back before life had gotten so, so complicated. A byproduct of her Aura's natural healing ability. She could get knocked into trees, slammed into the ground, pop a joint; so long as she got a good few hours' sleep, she'd be ready to do it all over again.

Which was why the fact that, before she even opened her eyes, she could feel a sharp ache running from her head down to her toes, she was not ashamed to admit to feeling a little alarmed. Something she audibly marked by a low groan.

"Hmm...Summer? Summer!" Tai's voice shouted to her left, and she quickly felt both his large hands tightly grip her left. Summer frowned; Tai? She'd left him home with the girls days ago, what was he doing with her?

Unbidden, painful, terrifying memories bubbled to the forefront of her mind. Coming across a pair of strange men—one a Faunus with a scorpion tail, the other a hulking beast of a man—while tracking a horde of Grimm. Those two men attacking her after confirming that she had silver eyes—her heart clenched at the memory, because _Ruby_, her sweet, darling little girl, had silver eyes as well. The last thing she remembered was the most startling recollection; the three of them were beset by Grimm—Beowolves—but then the two men _commanded_ the things to attack her.

After that…she could scarcely recall using her eyes to stop the Grimm, and then a searing, mind-numbing pain spreading out from her skull.

"Summer, are you okay?" her husband asked, voice cracking. A lump formed in her throat, because she could recall only one other time when he sounded so vulnerable, when he sounded so broken.

Slowly, deliberately, she took a deep breath, and opened her eyes. Her right eye, at least, the left one refused to open, for some reason. But the sight of her beloved erased all other thoughts.

His eyes were bloodshot, and there were bags under them. His stubble—normally carefully trimmed—had grown to a five o'clock shadow, and his hair was a mess of errant spikes.

But his smile—his relieved, loving smile—made her heart soar, and let her know that everything was going to be alright.

He sighed raggedly, collapsing against her…hospital bed (which made sense, all things considered), "Oh, thank the gods!" He lifted his head up, eyes wet with unshed tears, "I was so afraid! If anything happened to you I…I…oh gods…" he hung his head low with a gasping moan.

Summer cooed, removing her hand from his grip to cup his face. He leaned into her touch, and as she rubbed away his tears, she said, "Tai, it's alright. I'm here, I'm safe, we're together."

"Thank the gods," Tai whispered, reaching up and squeezing her hand once more, shutting his eyes tightly as he just…stayed with her. Summer smiled softly; only to frown when she felt an odd pull on the left side of her face. She then blushed, having forgotten her initial confusion over the fact that she was half-blind.

She cleared her throat. "Uh…Tai?" He looked up, "How bad is it?" At his questioning frown, he grimaced, standing up, still holding her hand in his.

He bit his lip, "Your eye…it's…it's gone, Summer."

Summer Rose blinked. Once, twice, three times. She let out a short, incredulous breath, "Come again?"

"Your left eye…it's gone," he whispered. He paled slightly, "They said there…wasn't much to clean out."

Summer pulled her hand back, touching the edge of the bandage across her face. She raised her hand along her face, stopping just under where her eye should be; the flesh above her cheek was completely numb, which didn't make her feel any better. Then, with a featherlight touch, she poked her left eye.

And her fingers sunk into the bandage as pain stabbed across her face, her ears ringing.

Once again, the memories of her failed mission burst to the forefront of her mind. The fear, the despair, the _pain_ that burned her to her core.

"Summer!" Tai's voice dimly rang in her ears.

Her eye, those men destroyed her _eye_! Gods, what was she going to do? How could she…how could she fight? Swing her weapons? Shoot her guns?

Gods, could she still turn Grimm to stone with only one eye?

"Miss Rose?" Summer turned—a bit too swiftly, given the sharp jolt in her neck—at the new voice. Unfortunately, given her new injuries, even turned as far as possible, she couldn't see this new person.

The person—a bald man in scrubs—quickly stepped into view. "Miss Rose?" He said calmly, "My name's Cilan, I'm a nurse at this hospital—your nurse, for the time being." He spared a glance at the monitors at the side of the bed, "Now, what's wrong?"

"M-My eye…" Summer stammered, "i-i-it's…"

"In pain? Are you starting to feel pain?" he asked.

She shook her head as vigorously as she could, "It's gone," she whimpered.

Cilan sighed, frowning sympathetically, "Yes, it is," he bluntly stated. "I wasn't there, but if you're up to it, I can get the doctor who performed the surgery here to answer some questions. But first I'm going to need you to calm down."

Summer wanted to scream; calm down? She's half-blind!

But then Tai grabbed her hand again. She turned, and her soul was soothed by the smile on his face. It wasn't some big, toothy grin. Not some brash, feral smirk. No, this was the smile he reserved for her, and their girls. That small, bashful upturn of his lips that said that he had no idea what the hell was going to happen, but he would stand with her and shoulder whatever came their way.

She felt her anxiety seep away as she stared into his eyes; only to feel bitter at the reminder that she only had one eye to stare back with. But she didn't dwell on that, instead turning back to the nurse. "I'm okay," she said.

The nurse nodded, but still checked over the monitors. Then, he said, "Are you in pain? Do you need me to increase the pain medication?" She shook her head; were she an ordinary person, she might have said yes. But she was a Huntress (a pretty damn good one, her recent defeat notwithstanding), and her not inconsiderable Aura was already putting in work. Nurse Cilan hummed lightly, but nonetheless nodded, saying, "The doctor will be down in a bit."

They watched the nurse leave, carefully closing the door behind him. After sitting silence for a moment, Summer huffed, "Okay, we need to talk about something or else I'm going to lose it."

"Oh!" Tai blinked, then said, "Qrow and the girls are on their way. Finally. But hey," he chuckled, "you know Qrow." Unfortunately, the mention of their children (and Yang was hers as much as, if not more than, Raven's), did not have its intended and standard effect. Summer paled, and she could dimly feel (and hear) her heartbeat rise.

"Summer?!" In any other situation she would have laughed; he was starting to sound like a broken record. Instead, she reached up to grab his arm, staring at him as intently as she was able.

"Ruby's in danger!" she hissed urgently.

Tai made to flinch backwards, but Summer held him in place. She pointed to her missing eye, panting lightly, "_This_ wasn't just collateral damage. The men that attacked me, attacked me because of my eyes! My _Silver Eyes_."

It took him a minute to understand what he meant. But when he did—when his face paled and his eyes grew wider than dinnerplate—he jerked back, pulling out his scroll so fast she was afraid it would fly out of his hands.

By then, the doctor and a couple nurses burst into the room, taking a quick look at the monitors before barking orders at each other. But Summer ignored them in favor of staring at her husband as he called the only other person they trusted with their children.

/+/+/+/+/

"Tai, Tai, Tai!" Qrow harshly whispered into his scroll, "Calm down! The girls are finally asleep." He spared a glance to nieces. It was a truly adorable thing to witness. Ruby was curled up against her older sister—which was to be expected, what with the fact that she insisted on staying up until both Tai and Summer were home safe. Better she catch some sleep now than pass out on the floor in front of her parents. Yang managed to stay awake longer than Ruby, but eventually she too passed out from exhaustion. Hugging her sister tightly against her as she rested her little chin atop her sister's red-highlighted hair.

They were currently riding a public bullhead from Patch to Vale. Well, nominally public—it was unfortunate (for the morning commuters) that the turnstiles all burst into shorted out after Qrow paid for his and the girls' tickets. Of course, it was _actually_ unfortunate that the bullhead they entered had a malfunction, delaying their trip by a good margin. But then, that misfortune ended up being in their favor, since they ended up having the bullhead all to themselves. Also meant he could drink without some soccer mom giving him the stink-eye.

"Okay, okay," Qrow blinked, clearing his head and returning his attention to Tai's voice. "I'm calm, I'm calm."

"Are you, now?" Qrow asked with a smirk, taking a sip from his flask.

"Not the time, Qrow," Tai growled, something which immediately set him on edge.

A lump formed in his throat. "Summer?" he croaked.

"No, no she's fine," Tai sighed. "Mostly, anyway." Before Qrow could prompt for an answer, Tai continued, "She lost her left eye. Doctors did everything they could but…" he trailed off uneasily.

Qrow's jaw dropped; Summer lost her _what?_

"There's more." Tai's voice gained a fearful edge, "It wasn't just collateral damage from a fight."

Qrow's heart clenched, "You mean—"

"The men that fought her…they only attacked after confirming she had _Silver_ eyes."

"No," Qrow gasped, jerking his head to stare fearfully at Ruby.

"They're with you, right?" His friend's voice quivered, "They're safe?"

Qrow wanted to scoff; what the hell kind of questions were those? But he held his tongue. Instead, he put away his flask and replied, "We're fine. Like I said, the girls are sleeping. The only other people in the bullhead are the pilots." He nodded, reaching under his seat and pulling out his weapon, "We'll be fine," he said as he ran a finger along Harbinger's edge. "But we need to tell Ozpin about this."

"I know, I know," Tai sighed raggedly, "I just needed to check in on you first. Plus, I, uh, don't have his number."

Qrow, despite the recent developments, snickered, "I'll call him. And don't worry about us; I promise you, Tai, nothing's going to happen either of them. Not while I'm around. Consider than a Branwen promi—urk!" he cut himself off, recalling the last person to utter those particular words to Tai about (one of) his daughters.

"…I'm gonna hang up now."

"…Do that," Qrow lamely replied, sighing when Tai ended the call.

/+/+/+/+/

"I don't like this," Glynda groused to her boss.

Ozpin didn't turn his head, but she could hear the smile on his face as he replied, "It's just a library, Glynda."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, "It's not that and you know it!" she hissed as they entered the building.

He turned to face her, granting her a full view of his small, smarmy smirk. "And what is it?" he asked cheekily.

Glynda wanted to let loose her anger; show-off that which made her students fear her. Alas, her boss was not some cocky adolescent she could berate into submission. As long as she'd known him, she'd never seen him submit to anything. As it stood, she could nothing but stew in her frustrations.

They reached the front desk, where a drowsy Faunus with whiskers was lazily scanning books. Upon seeing them, he set the books aside, plastering a smile on his face as he said, "Good morning. How may I help you?"

Ozpin nodded, "I sent a…peer of mine here late last night to perform some research for me." He sent him to do what? "His name Gehrman; a tall man, wearing fairly worn and old-fashioned clothing—"

"The bloody guy?" the young man cut off Ozpin, face paling lightly.

Glynda rolled her eyes as her boss sighed. "…Yes."

The librarian gulped, leaning forward and gesturing to the stairs, "He's on the third floor, last I checked. By the computers to the far left, surrounded by a massive pile of books." Ozpin merely inclined his head, heading for the stairs. Glynda followed closely.

Upon reaching the first few steps, Glynda allowed herself a small huff of irritation. "He's still wearing those bloody clothes?" she grumbled.

"Now, now, Glynda," Ozpin chided, far more amused than he had any right to be, "don't judge the man so harshly. They could be the only clothes he owns."

That that may have been true did make Glynda feel a touch guilty, but that guilt was offset by the overall suspicions she held for the man. Chief among them the fact that he butchered a man and didn't seem to think that was _wrong_.

Briefly, she wondered if they should have informed the other Headmasters of this development. She was pretty sure they only knew the bare bones of Summer's assignment; that a large pack of Beowolves had been documented travelling though Vale, she was attacked, and subsequently rescued. She and Ozpin were too busy with damage control to give them an official report. Though, in all honesty, it was probably better to wait for now.

James Ironwood, the trigger-happy oaf, would have immediately called for Gehrman to be sent to Atlas for 'proper questioning'. And while she was inclined to agree that such an anomaly needed exceedingly careful watching, it was a little too soon for Ironwood's blunt approach.

The man hadn't proven himself to be an enemy. A potential threat—given the fact that he, again, _butchered a man_—but not an actively malevolent one.

The pair reached the third floor, and quickly found the mystery man. Upon reaching them, Glynda paused; the librarian undersold it. Gehrman wasn't next to a 'pile' of books. He was at the center of a veritable avalanche of literature.

He was facing them, but his attention was absorbed by the massive book he held in his hands. A quick look revealed it to be…_The History of Remnant: Volume IV_. Glynda blinked, spying the previous three volumes on the floor beside him. Alongside what looked like books anatomy, astronomy, weaponry, engineering…Where did he find the time?

She turned to her boss, who was staring at the scene before them with amusement, making no move to step forward. Deciding to be the adult in the room (a disturbingly common occurrence where her headmaster was concerned), Glynda stepped forward. She cleared her throat. Gehrman's eyes flicked up to her, only for them to quickly return to his book.

The young woman was taken aback; never before had she been ignored in such a way. He wasn't even staring at her expectantly, he was plain _ignoring_ her.

She stared at him in disbelief for another moment, before a slight cough from behind her brought her back to the present. She jerked her head around, blushing up a storm as Ozpin nodded towards Gehrman, a smile playing at his lips.

Grinding her teeth, Glynda strode forward, carefully stepping around the books littering the floor. She cleared her throat, again.

Nothing.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

She stamped down a cry of frustration, opting instead to loudly clear her throat, one last time.

"You ought to get some tea for that," Gehrman replied, not looking up from his book.

Never before had Glynda been pushed so far; odd, because she'd spent the last few years as a teacher. But then, her students were children on the verge of adulthood. They tended not to know better, and quickly fell into line otherwise. Gehrman was a full-grown adult. Butchery aside, he should know better.

Before she could voice her frustrations, the apathetic man said aloud, "How much does she know?"

She was taken aback, until Ozpin hummed, answering, "Compared to you?" He said with a sly smirk. "A great deal." Glynda wanted to scream; she was standing _right there_.

"About you?" Gehrman finally put down his book, staring intently at the headmaster.

"Ah," Ozpin's smile grew softer. Melancholic. "Compared to you...Not enough."

Now she was just confused (and a little betrayed). She knew that there was more to her boss than meets the eye. Of their allies, only Qrow Branwen—of _all_ people—seemed to have a good handle on Ozpin, and even he was left in the dark by a wide margin.

That some psychotic stranger seemed to know him better than she did…

"Very well," Gehrman closed his book, setting it aside and rising to his feet, "we can discuss matters at a later time." He then, to her mild shock, set about gathering the books strewn on the floor. She wasn't entirely sure why the act was shocking. It's what any decent person would—ah, there it was.

Before she could further reflect on her (not unjustified) bias, Ozpin's scroll rang. "Yes Qrow?" he answered jovially. His good mood quickly died however; his pleasant expression replaced by a stern frown. "…I see. I'd suspected as much, but didn't want to needlessly alarm anyone at this time…You're what?" His voice actually rose in pitch slightly, and Glynda found herself curious as to what Qrow had said to elicit such a reaction from the normally placid man.

"Oh…no, of course not…I realize that, Qrow." He lifted his head, sighing softly, "My apologies," Glynda leaned back; _that_ was a rare occurrence. "I suppose I'm still a little on edge…Do you believe she's up for a short debriefing?" He nodded after a moment, "Very well. Tell Taiyang that we'll be there in a bit." He then hung up the call, looking back to them. "Glynda," he said to her, "call the bullhead; we're going to be leaving a little later than expected."

"Summer's well enough to talk?" she asked, a little surprised.

"Perhaps," her boss said with a small shrug, "at the very least, we can check up on her." He turned to Gehrman, "We'll leave you be for a little longer."

"No need," the man said, the books all put away, "I'm done here." Glynda wanted to say that, no, he wasn't. That instead of putting the books away properly he'd just put them in random spaces and left a number of tall stacks on the table behind him. But she was tired (and more than a little annoyed), so she let the matter lie.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: There's practically nothing on Summer's personal life (and personality, really) other than A) she was the leader of team STRQ, B) she shacked up with Taiyang after Raven fucked off, and C) she made some bitchin cookies. Maybe season 7 will change that…Anyway, be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Gratitude

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

Gehrman did his best not to overtly gawk at his surroundings; it was easier the night before, when the sun was not shining nor people crowding the streets. It was all just so…different, from Yharnam. Beyond the obvious technological advancements, the city—Vale, he recalled—had over Yharnam, the general atmosphere was…laxer.

Even before the Beast Blood became a problem (well, a big problem), the people of Yharnam were a suspicious, angry lot. They moved in clumps, glaring angrily at anyone that crossed their paths.

The people of Vale, by contrast, seemed to feel safe enough to walk about alone. Rather, they moved in massive crowds, but those in the crowds did not huddled together for safety.

To say nothing of the vehicles that drove along the roads—automobiles, or more colloquially, cars. Truly a marvel of engineering. Utilizing the energy of combustion in order to power an ‘engine’ capable of moving at least ten times as fast as a horse? Simply extraordinary.

The source of that combustion, however, was another matter entirely.

They called it Dust. Found within the earth as crystals, Dust, somehow, contained the means to manipulate the natural elements. Water, earth, fire, air, and even more abstract ones like gravity or light.

He could not help but wonder how such wonderous things came to be. Which Great One’s blood crystalized beneath the earth’s surface? What made it able to contain the elements—physical and abstract?

Unfortunately, the people of Remnant—as they called the world at large—did not seem to know either. Nor did they know why the moon was shattered; so long as men roamed Remnant, the moon had been broken. (A part of Gehrman was worried about what could have done that damage, and if it would return to finish the job. The rest of him felt a perverse glee that the chosen symbol of his slaver was irrevocably destroyed).

It was a similar situation to the Beasts that plagued them. The Grimm. Truly strange creatures unlike any he’d seen or heard of before. No one was sure of their origins, but all legitimate sources agreed that they were not creatures of flesh and blood, despite their similarities to the animals that roamed the lands. _Darkness incarnate_, one author had dubbed them, in light of the fact that they appeared to be nothing more than a misty black void when cut open. Something which…didn’t make sense. Even the most bizarre Great Ones and their spawn had internal organs; a heart, a brain, various intestines. That the Grimm—all Grimm—did not was…concerning.

There was also the matter of the Faunus. A…subrace? Sister species to Humans? —the literature was unclear and contradictory. The two groups could interbreed and produce fertile offspring, but apparently there was something called ‘DNA’—which was a completely separate bag of cats—within one’s blood that was able to classify that offspring as specifically Human or Faunus. Whatever their official classification, they were people with one—and only one—animal body part. It could be as banal as whiskers on your face to as overt as a tail attached to your lower back. From what Gehrman was able to glean, they had walked the earth alongside ordinary humans from the start. However, due to their animal traits, they were treated as little more than slaves. Things appeared to be getting better for them, according to the fourth volume of _The History of Remnant_. But the same encyclopedia also acknowledged that Faunus still faced prejudice, and the majority lived on the (largely desert) island continent, Menagerie—which was both a means of reparation for centuries of abuse, and one last ‘fuck you’, in Gehrman’s humble opinion.

There was so much more that Gehrman needed clarification on—he’d only barely scratched the topic of ‘Aura’, some sort of biological energy field granted to, to quote one book, ‘all things with a soul’, before other topics demanded his equal and frayed attention. Hopefully the more than three-thousand-year-old man beside him would be able to fill in the blanks.

Speaking of, Ozpin was doing a good job of acting like nothing was odd; as if the other, ordinary citizens walking alongside them were not given them (well, mainly Gehrman himself) a very wide berth. His female companion however—Glynda, he believed her name was—was less composed. No matter what, she just couldn’t seem to keep a scowl off her face. At least she wasn’t trying to scold him like the previous night.

They reached the hospital in no time at all, and Gehrman tried not to wince as a red and white vehicle with blaring lights and a high-pithed siren slid to a stop in front of the building, two doctors exited the vehicle, pulling out a man lying on a gurney. Some more doctors—how many did they need for one man?—ran out to meet them, and then the group hurried into the building through a separate entrance, the van quietly driving away.

“You get used to it.” Gehrman subtly looked over at Ozpin. The man kept his gaze locked forward, but still he whispered, “The sudden lights and noises. Cars, specifically.”

“To be honest, I’m more impressed at the number of doctors that ran out,” he replied. There were not a lot of doctors—_true_ doctors, not those peddlers associated with the Healing Church—back in Yharnam. “Seems a bit excessive, though.”

“Well, they’re not all ‘doctors’.” Gehrman waited for more, but they’d entered the building proper by then, and were surrounded by too many people to speak discretely.

Ozpin led them to the front desk, asking the man sitting before them, “Excuse me, can you check if Summer Rose has been cleared for visitors?”

The man nodded, looking up from his computer (as Gehrman had learned they were called), “Of course. One—ah!” he gasped, eyes widening into surprise, “Headmaster Ozpin!”

At the man’s cry, Ozpin smiled lightly, “Ah, I thought I recognized you. How have you been, Mr. Azure?”

“It’s ‘Azure-Blaine’, now, actually.”

“Ah, congratulations!” The pair fell into an amiable conversation.

As that was happening, Gehrman sat down at a nearby chair, taking care not to scoff when a mother none-too-hurriedly moved her and her children away from him. He also noticed that a fair number of people were staring at them—rather, at admirably at Ozpin and fearfully at him (if Glynda was perturbed by the lack of attention to her person, she didn’t show it). The Headmaster was a popular man, it seemed

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ozpin said without turning around. At Gehrman’s questioning grunt, he continued, “Assuming she’s well enough, you’re coming with us.”

Glynda made some sort of contrary noise, and the First Hunter asked, “Whatever for?”

“I’d imagine Summer would like to thank the man who saved her life,” Ozpin easily replied, “on top of hearing a direct account of what happened to her.”

Gehrman scratched his chin; thank him? He’d rarely been thanked back when he operated in Yharnam. But, again, Yharnamites were a fickle lot. That second part, however, he was familiar with. Everyone wanted to know how a Hunt occurred—until the retelling reached the part where guts and blood spilled everywhere, then people got squeamish. In the end, he agreed to tell his tale (albeit an abridged one), so long as the woman in question was able and willing.

As it turned out, she was, and Gehrman found himself in a windowless elevator rising to whatever floor Summer Rose was recuperating on—the fifth floor, a tinny voice called out from the elevator as its doors opened. They travelled a short distance, and, through a window on a door, Gehrman spotted Taiyang—Summer Rose’s husband, from what he gathered—who was peering outside it. The muscular blonde man opened the door, beckoning them inside.

It was at that point that Ozpin gestured for Gehrman to stop. He said, “I’m afraid that there are some sensitive matters we must to discuss with Miss Rose first.” Gehrman nodded, and sat down on a nearby chair as Ozpin and Glynda entered the room.

It gave Gehrman time to do what he’d been doing for the last day, observe and compare.

The first thing that came to mind was that this hospital was much less grand than the ones in Yharnam—the largest ones, at least. Those hospitals used to be great mansions, which were then transformed into centers of healing after the owners’ deaths. There were beautiful paintings, intricate furniture, and a general air of nobility despite the smell of blood and wails of the sick and dying.

This hospital was more…spartan. The building appeared to have been built with healing, and only that, in mind—there were no winding staircases or intricately carved tables. Just long hallways and sharp corners leading to rooms where patients dwelt. There were paintings on some walls, but they lacked the detailed imagery of those he was used to. And the smell…well, there really wasn’t a smell, the air was remarkably stale. And the most he heard was the squeaking of footwear against the floor, the creaking of wheelchairs, and a disembodied voice calling doctors and nurses to and fro.

He also noticed a great deal of people, as before, leering at him—some with concern, others with suspicion. A doctor had actually stopped by to ask if he needed assistance. When he said no, she asked if he needed new clothes. When he still said no, her face pinched, in preparation to press on. But then someone called for her, and she disappeared down the hall.

All too soon, the door to Summer’s room opened. Glynda poked her head out, curtly nodding at him. He entered to room, taking a moment look over the young couple before him. Taiyang—a name unlike any Gehrman had ever heard, now that he thought about it—had a slump to his posture, and bags under his eyes. But there was no hiding the relief that exuded from his very being as he stared at his wife. And then he looked over at him, and his good mood quickly gave way to a sort of mild shock; Gehrman supposed that the last time they met, Taiyang was too worried about his wife to really register Gehrman’s appearance. Summer was no better. Her one good eye widened considerably as she looked him up and down.

Gehrman bit back a sigh, “It’s not mine; it belongs to that Faunus that tried to kill you.”

“Uh…huh…” Taiyang breathed.

“Right…uh, thanks.” Summer hesitantly said. Gehrman just bowed in return. She shook her head (wincing slightly at the action), “No, I mean,” she cleared her throat straightening her back, her silver eye shining with gratitude, “Really, thank you. If you hadn’t come along…” she trailed off with a grimace.

“Please,” her husband said, head slightly bowed, “if you ever need anything—”

“There’s no need,” Gehrman gently cut him off.

“Mr. Gearman—” Summer began.

“My name is Gehrman,” the First Hunter corrected her, smirking at her light blush, “and you may call me as such. And, honestly, do not feel as though you are in my debt. The fact that you are able to be with your loved ones is reward enough.” It really was; only the worst kind of Hunter—those that lost their lives in ‘accidents’—acted for personal gain. And Gehrman was _far_ from the worst kind of Hunter.

“Still…” Summer trailed off.

“How about this?” Taiyang picked up, “If you’re ever in town, we’ll give you the _best_ meal on the continent.” Summer eagerly nodded along with his lofty words.

Gehrman huffed good-naturedly, “Very well.”

“If that’s all,” Glynda’s sharp voice cut through their short reverie, “Gehrman, I believe you promised to inform Summer of the exact course of events that lead to her injuries.” Gehrman smirked at her impatient tone of voice; until he fully took in her features. He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of woman Glynda was, but she appeared to be the type that enjoyed being in control. As such, the wrinkles on her clothes, the emerging bags under her bloodshot eyes, and the stray hairs poking out from her hasty bun spoke of a woman who was steadily losing control. He was self-aware enough to realize that some of her frazzled state was his own fault.

Thus, he turned back to Summer, beginning his tale. “I was following a large pack of Grimm—Beowolves,” he recalled their official classification, “through the forest.”

“What were you doing in the forest?” Summer asked, before stammering, “Er—not to interrupt or anything—”

“It’s fine,” Gehrman waved off her apology. “I was in the middle of my own Hunt, when my prey suddenly ran off—to attack you, I’d find out.” Summer grimaced, gesturing for him to continue. “The tracks led to a cliff, and at its bottom were you, a horde of Grimm, and those two men sent to kill you—Hazel and the Faunus who’s name I never heard.”

“Tyrian Callows.” He turned to Ozpin, who adjusted his glasses, “we finally identified the…remains,” he said carefully, staring at Gehrman. “He was a mercenary who dropped off the map a few years ago.”

“Good to know,” Gehrman dryly replied. He then crossed his arms, turning back to Summer, “In truth, I at first thought you were in the middle of a training exercise.”

“Come again?”

“Well what was I to think?” Gehrman shrugged, “You were surrounded by Grimm, yes, but there were also two men nearby by watching you. Until Hazel struck you into the dirt, I had no reason to suspect they were trying to kill you.” He scoffed, “Though the fact that all those Grimm were ignoring him and Tyrian should have tipped me off.”

“That is a…troubling detail,” Glynda agreed.

“Regardless of my initial thoughts,” Gehrman continued, “I was making my way down to assist you.” He narrowed his eyes, “And then I was nearly blinded by a sudden burst of white light, and all the Grimm were turned to stone.”

Summer’s remaining eye widened, “Ah…you saw that.”

“I did.”

“Guessing you’ll…want to know what it was?”

“Will it lead to you seeking to kill others to grow more powerful?” Gehrman felt grim amusement at the stricken and perplexed expressions of those around him.

“Wha—no! Never!” Summer exclaimed, “My e—”

“Then I don’t care,” he cut her off. “Granted, I am curious, but not to the point where I am compelled to know.” It’s what made him a good Hunter; never asked too many questions, content to learn at his own languid pace. It also made him an excellent pawn. “Where was I…ah, yes. Hazel had slammed you into the dirt, at which point I’d finally caught up to you all. I fired at Hazel, to get his attention away from you,” he lied (the first of many, if he were a betting man), “after which Tyrian got in the way.” At that recollection, Gehrman frowned, “Matter of fact, I believe you have Tyrian to thank for your survival.”

“Come again?” Taiyang asked this time.

“He _prevented_ Hazel from killing you while he and I fought; I suspect he wanted to honor of killing you himself.” Gehrman rolled his eyes, “Idiot.”

“Oh yes,” Taiyang drawled, “terrible shame that the crazy killer helped keep Summer alive.”

“Oh!” the woman in question gasped, pressing the back of her left hand against her forehead, “what_ever_ was he thinking?” She and her husband shared a look, before dissolving into giggles. Gehrman allowed himself a small smile at the couple before him; he’d rarely seen this kind of ease between two lovers in Yharnam. There was a time when he’d hope to have it himself…but such dreams lay buried, deep in the recesses of his mind, where they belonged.

He gave the two a minute to collect themselves, before saying, “Obviously,” he gestured the blood staining his clothes, “I killed him.”

Summer nodded choppily, leering at the dried blood, “Yeah…Tai told me about that.”

The First Hunter did his best not to scowl; was this woman not a Hunter herself? Instead, he shrugged and said “Hazel ran away after that. Didn’t want to end up as another stain upon my clothes, I suppose.” All but Ozpin pulled disgusted faces at his words (though his fellow man of the Cosmos did furrow his brow slightly). “After which, I healed you, and managed to contact…what were their names?”

“Glade Simmons, Terra Lake, and Paz Karlson,” Glynda supplied.

Gehrman nodded, “I managed to contact them, patch you up a bit, and,” he spread his arms wide, “here we are.”

Summer nodded, staring down at her lap. She then sighed, lifting her head. “Again, thank you,” she said. Gehrman said nothing, merely bowing in turn. He made to bid the couple farewell (he couldn’t think of anything else to add), when the increasing pitter-patter of tiny feet caught his attention.

“Ruby, Yang!” A raspy male voice called out from outside the door, “Slow down!”

Summer and Taiyang immediately perked up; the rest of their family, Gehrman inferred. An inference proven correct when the door slammed open, revealing three people. A man, making his way down the hall, with dark hair and what appeared to be red eyes. At the door were two young girls—the elder of the two looking like their father, save for her longer hair and purple eyes, and the younger the splitting image of their mother, wearing yellow and red dresses, respectively—who cheerfully cried, “Mommy!”

Of course, the two children froze upon seeing Gehrman, in all his grim glory. The blonde girl quickly pulled her younger sister (who was staring at him with a slack jaw) behind her. The man had caught up, and he, at least, managed to not look like he was staring death in the face.

“Girls!” Taiyang joyfully crooned, stepping forward and hugging them tightly. But his children just kept on staring at Gehrman (not that he could blame them). Taiyang noticed their glued gazes, chuckling lightly. “I know he looks scary, “he loudly whispered, “but Mr. Gehrman here,” he turned, nodding at the First Hunter, “he’s a good guy.”

Gehrman cocked a brow at the declaration, and the sincerity behind it.

“He’s right,” Summer said in agreement, “if not for him I,” she choked up a bit, “I might not be here.”

The older girl gulped, “You mean…you’d be dead.” Her sister gasped.

“…Yes.” Gehrman turned, surprised at her candor.

He was further surprised when he felt two small weights latch onto his legs.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” The blonde girl cried, holding onto his left leg. Her sister said nothing but held a surprisingly tighter grip on his right leg.

Gehrman was at a loss; he’d never spent much time around children, much less thankful and openly affectionate (and human) children. As such, all he could do was awkwardly bend down and pat their heads. “Er…It’s quite alright….You can let go now.” That got a round of chuckles from everyone—even from Glynda.

The man who arrived with the children huffed amusedly, “He’s right squirts; should save some hugs for your mother.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the two girls let go, scrambling around him and towards Summer. They weren’t quite able to climb up, but Taiyang quickly lifted them onto the bed, into Summer’s open arms. The girls fiercely hugged their mother who, like any kind and loving parent, ignored her own pain and discomfort in favor of basking in her children’s warmth.

Gehrman’s throat tightened, and he quickly turned away. There, at the door, was Ozpin—who held it open with a gentle smile—Glynda and the other man making their way for the elevator. He quickly exited the room, upon which Ozpin carefully closed the door.

He and Ozpin met up with Glynda and the other man as they waited for the elevator. The dark-haired man looked Gehrman up and down. Gehrman, grunted in reply, “Should you not be with your family…?” he trailed off.

“Qrow.” The man offered, “And believe me I’d love nothing more. But,” he grimaced, “me and hospitals…don’t mix.” Surprisingly, Glynda—with her back to them—nodded surreptitiously. Gehrman hummed, and let the matter lie.

“WHAT?!” a young girl screamed.

The four of them immediately turned around, Qrow already halfway down the hall.

“What do you mean it’s _gone?!_ Where’d it go?!”

Qrow froze midstride, which turned out to be a mistake, as a doctor—no doubt rushing over to investigate the same disturbance—crashed into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

Gehrman cracked a smile as Ozpin and Glynda openly chuckled at the situation at hand.

**/+/+/+/+/**

**A/N: I started writing about how cars work by pressurizing gas until it explodes, which in turn moves the pistons which power the car. But then I remembered Dust. Funny that. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

Regroup

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

“Thank you for providing a warm bed for me,” Gehrman said, breaking the silence that had settled within the bullhead (a ridiculous name for the flying vehicle, in his opinion. It looked nothing like a bull). When they’d left the hospital, Qrow bid them goodbye, leaving to find an inn—hotel, rather—for him, Tai, Yang, and Ruby to spend the next few nights. The man then offered to pay for a room, for Gehrman, his own way of showing his gratitude for Summer’s rescue—well, that and free drinks at a local pub. Before Gehrman could decline in favor of spending another night researching the world at large, Ozpin declared that there were free rooms at Beacon Academy. It was ‘summer break’, and the grounds were largely empty. Unable to come up with a convincing enough excuse to turn the man down, the Hunter accepted.

Glynda—who’s eyes were glued on her ‘Scroll’, as the devices were called—barely grunted a response. Ozpin offered a more articulate reply, smiling lightly and saying, “It’s the least I can do.” It also, Gehrman knew, provided a means of keeping Gehrman close and secure. But thus far, he was willing to oblige Ozpin, for their shared damnation, if nothing else.

There was a shift in the bullhead, Gehrman had felt it once before, when he was landing at the hospital. Indeed, there was a short ‘ding’, and the voice of the pilot informed them they were close to landing.

He stayed seated until they actually landed, waiting for Glynda and Ozpin to finally leave. He let out an amused grunt as he took note of the sun above them; it’d barely moved from when they’d left the city of Vale. Truly, air travel was an extraordinary gift. He then turned to look at Beacon Academy, bringing his gaze higher to get a full view of the building. And higher. And higher. And higher.

The First Hunter was unable to keep his jaw from falling open as he beheld the…the castle before him.

He heard soft laughter to his right, turning to see Ozpin, glee shining in his eyes, “I cannot tell you how long it’s been since I’ve such a _grand_ reaction to my academy. Even children are more composed nowadays.” Gehrman snapped his jaw shut, glowering at the comparison.

“No, no, that’s wrong.” Glynda’s suddenly spoke up. The two men turned to see her holding her Scroll up to her ear, speaking into it. “I’ve already given you the location—and how is that my fault?” she said, glaring at nothing.

Ozpin huffed, walking forward and lifting his cane up. He reached into the crook of her elbow, pulling it back sharply. She released an undignified yelp, dropping the Scroll. With a quick flick of his wrist, Ozpin caught it on his cane. He flicked it upwards, watching it in his free hand. He brought it up to his ear, said, “She’ll call you back,” shut off the device, and handed it back to an equal parts disbelieving and irate Glynda. She took a deep breath, stepping forward. But he deflated her incoming rant with a quick smile. “If you weren’t so close to exhaustion, that wouldn’t have happened.”

The woman shrank back, a small blush on her face. “I’m still capable of performing my duties.”

“Not to your obscenely high standards,” her superior countered. He stepped forward, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder, “I appreciate all the work you’ve put in lately—especially in light of the circumstances—but you need your rest. Please.” Glynda appeared as if she wanted to further protest, but there must have been something in Ozpin’s eyes, because she just sighed.

“Of course, Headmaster.” She made to leave, only to pause, turning around to look at Gehrman.

“Get some rest,” Ozpin playfully rebuked, “I’ll take care of the rest.” She nodded slowly, making her way towards the eastern part of the Academy.

Gehrman grunted as she watched her leave, “She’s devoted to her job.”

“She wholeheartedly believes in what she does,” Ozpin countered, smiling at Glynda’s shrinking figure. The First Hunter stayed silent, recalling, not just Maria, but the other Hunters of his prime. Those that joined the Hunt not for the Blood, but for the chance to defend their loved ones from Beasts.

A shame the Blood ended up getting the better of most of them in the end.

“Come along,” Ozpin’s voice broke him from his reverie, “guest rooms are this way,” he said, gesturing down the central path into the building. Gehrman followed silently.

He took the long walk to observe the Academy. His initial thoughts, that it was more a palace than school, was not entirely true. While the building was far larger than any schoolhouse he’d ever seen, it was not built like any castle he could recall. There were no large paintings gracing the walls, no statues watching them as they traversed the grounds. The walls shone, but it was a result of the lights hanging from them, not gleaming gold or silver. There were also no servants. Or, if there were, then those servants were solely paid to clean, and not show off their master’s wealth.

It was a quiet walk. Almost eerie, with the way their footsteps echoed around them. Gehrman had to fight the urge to summon forth his Burial Blade and slowly slink around the corners, blade held out in anticipation of an ambush.

“Not a fan of silence, hm?” Ozpin asked, looking over his shoulder with a smirk (he was fond of that, Gehrman was starting to notice).

Gehrman just shrugged, “Long corridors and silence tend to not bode well.”

Ozpin’s smirk grew wider, “It’s not usually like this; you should see this place during the schoolyear.” He faced forward again, tilting his head up with a fond sigh. The First Hunter stayed silent, and they continued on their way.

They finally came to a stop at a plain white door; one that lacked a handle. Ozpin reached into his pocket, pulling out his Scroll. He paused, however, upon seeing the queer look on Gehrman’s face. “Oh, it’s one of the security features afforded to our guests. Doors are keyed to open only to your…Scroll,” he trailed off, a frown marring his features. “…You don’t have a Scroll.”

“I do not,” Gehrman replied, pushing aside his curiosity over the many applications of a Scroll.

The man before him huffed, tapping his cane against the ground, “…You don’t have anything valuable on you, do you?”

In response, Gehrman snapped his finger. The ground bubbled to his left, and half a dozen Helpers popped out, holding up the Burial Blade. He gestured to the item, before snapping his fingers once more, dismissing the Helpers and returning them too…whatever space between spaces they carved out for themselves.

His fellow man of the Cosmos grunted, “Very well then. I’m temporarily removing the security lock on your room.” He began tapping various symbols on his Scroll, “Partly, at least. You’ll still be able to lock it from the inside—there’s a switch on the wall next to it—but once you leave anyone’ll be able to enter.”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” Gehrman replied as the door opened, sliding into the wall. Ozpin stepped aside, allowing Gehrman entry.

The room was bare, he noted. The first few steps revealed a short hallway and a small closet built into the wall. The hallway took a sharp left, revealing the rest of the guest quarters. There was a counter just a few feet inside, connected to some cabinets and a white box about as tall as him, and half as wide—a refrigerator, he’d read about those—and an oven—albeit one far more advanced than those he was familiar with. At the far end of the room was the bed, a desk and a pair of lamps, and across from the bed was thin box with a black surface—a television, he recalled—atop a short dresser, and a white door, with a handle. Between the counter and bed was a simple wood table—oak, if he had to hazard a guess.

Ozpin stepped up beside him, “The fridge—do you know what those are?” A nod. “Good. It doesn’t have much—just water and—”

“That can come later,” Gehrman cut him off, walking forward and taking a seat at the table. He gestured to the other seat, “I believe we have matters to discuss.”

Ozpin smirked again, “Ah, not just yet. Unfortunately, there other matters which require my attention. Fascinating as you are, my world doesn’t revolve around you.”

The First Hunter and cocked a brow. “Did you not reprimand Glynda for working too long?”

“I did,” Ozpin agreed easily, “But I, at least, got my seven hours of sleep in.”

Gehrman frowned, “Your seven what?”

“Ah, you don’t know?” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “There have been a number of studies performed on our bodily functions. One of those studies determined that adults, on average, require a minimum of seven hours of rest to properly function.”

“…You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

Gehrman scoffed, “The world is beset by Beasts that can sense any and all negative emotions, and _that’s_ what people decided to research?”

“Well,” Ozpin chuckled, “if you think that’s odd, wait until you see the bathroom.” He walked over to the door near the television, opening it and gesturing for Gehrman to enter.

It looked like a normal bathroom, a good third of it devoted to the shower. Beside it was the washbasin, a mirror hanging above that, and the toilet. Although, upon closer inspection, the toilet looked…off. Bulkier, he determined. Ozpin leaned over to it with that smirk of his, pressing down on a lever on the side. Gehrman stared nonplussed as a thin stream of water shot up from the toilet, vanishing when Ozpin released the lever.

“…What the hell is that?”

“That, my friend, was a stream of water from a bidet.”

“…It’s meant for cleaning yourself?”

“Why else would it be there?”

Now, Gehrman scoffed. “Unbelievable. First Hunters flinch at the sight of a little blood, and now people are unable to wipe their own asses?”

“Well,” Ozpin chuckled, “first off, there is toilet paper.” He gestured to the roll of white, well, paper, on the wall next to the toilet. “It’s ‘Huntsmen’ and ‘Huntresses’, not ‘Hunters’. And,” his voice lost its amusement, “that was not a ‘little blood’.”

Gehrman waved his off with a grunt, exiting the room. “Very well,” he said when Ozpin closed the door, “complete your business and come find me so we may have our discussion.” He paused, “I assume a place this large has a library?”

“We do. But I won’t be done until late tonight, if past experiences hold any weight,” he added wearily. “I’ll come by your room in the morning.”

“Don’t bother,” Gehrman replied, “I’ll be at the library.”

“All through the night? Again?”

“I’m not under your employ,” Gehrman said with narrowed eyes, “You have no say what I can or cannot do with my time.”

“True,” the Headmaster conceded, “but those seven hours do wonders.” He walked towards to exit, “Look up those studies while you’re making a mess of the library.” He stopped, placing both hands atop his cane. “Before I leave, however, there is one thing we cannot put off.” Gehrman straightened, giving his full attention. “I don’t know from when or where you’ve come from, but in Remnant, someone can’t just pop in out of nowhere, especially now, with all our technological advancements.” He pursed his lips, “I have…an idea, as to how I might explain your sudden appearance, but I must ask, do you plan on still being a Hunts—a Hunter?”

Gehrman did not even have to think of his reply. “I am a Hunter. I hunt Beasts, and will do so until my body fails me,” he smiled bitterly, “and that may not even stop me.”

Ozpin bowed slightly, “Thank you. That will help iron out a few details. Until tomorrow,” he said, turning the corner to the entryway. Only for him to poke his head around the corner a second later, “Also, I _must_ insist that you shower and put on a change of clothes. There’s a collapsible hamper in the bottom drawer, and there should be clothes that fit you in the drawers above that.” That said, he disappeared, the door leading out opening and closing with a soft _click_.

Gehrman scoffed, but he did have to agree that a shower would be nice. He didn’t need a hamper, however. He just stripped off his clothes, snapped his finger, and let the Helper do…whatever they did with a Hunter’s bloody clothing.

He stepped into the shower, peering at the bottles that lay upon a small counter in the corner. He frowned when he saw that the lotions were divided into ‘body wash’, ‘shampoo’—a type of lather made specifically for hair—and ‘conditioner’—another type of lather made specifically for hair. Thankfully, there was a bar of soap as well, so he used that.

It felt good, to bathe. There wasn’t a need to in the Dream—he’d rarely gotten dirty, and when he did the muck would vanish in an instant. It reminded him of his time spent in the Waking World, before everything went to shit. When, at the end of a long and bloody Hunt, he could wash it all—the blood, the tension, his sins—down the drain and allow himself to enjoy the calm of the day.

Upon exiting the shower, he took the opportunity to observe himself in the mirror. It was still odd, to look upon his reflection and see a young face stare back at him. A face unmarred by age and despair. It was only when he stared into his own eyes that he was assured that his face wasn’t that of a stranger. Nothing could erase that which lied beneath them. ‘_The eyes are the windows to the soul_,’ he’d heard more than once at Byrgenwerth. Well, his eyes revealed a soul forever stained with all he’d seen. All he’d done.

He decided against wearing his Hunting gear, trying on the clothing Ozpin offered. It was…different. The shirt was short-sleeved, white and imprinted the words ‘Beacon Academy’ in black, a silhouette of the academy printed underneath that. The pants were gray, the words ‘Beacon Academy’ running along the legs, and made of some sort of cotton, with an elastic waist. Comfortable, overall.

He glanced at the bed—a fairly large and fluffy looking thing—before turning away with a heavy scowl.

**/+/+/+/+/**

Ozpin found himself at a crossroads. How to converse with his fellow Headmasters? Video was the most efficient; let him observe them in order to gauge their reactions and act accordingly. But it also made it harder to…well, lie. Not in any literal sense—he’d gotten _very_ good at lying to people over the years—but it still ached his soul to manipulate those that trusted him. Of course, it was necessary. To divulge his (admittedly little) knowledge of Gehrman would open the door to a great many questions that he would be obliged to answer upon discovering them himself. Answers that he himself was hesitant to ask.

But going with audio only would also bring up questions that he didn’t want to deal with. Mainly why he didn’t set-up a video call.

In the end, he decided to go with video, establishing a four-way call between himself, Celia, Leonardo, and Theodore. Drumming his fingers along his desk as he waited.

Not even a minute in, Theodore sent a message to his Scroll. ‘Busy’, it read.

Ozpin cocked a brow. ‘Too busy to discuss recent events?’ he replied.

‘Is the Silver-Eyed Warrior dead?’

‘No.’

‘Busy.’ Well, that’s that.

Celia was the first to answer the call. “Oz,” she said with a nod, her graying curls bouncing softly.

“Celia,” he repeated the gesture with a small smirk. He then frowned, noting her military vestment.

She took notice of his gaze, and said, “I just left an emergency session regarding the SDC.”

The Headmaster of Beacon couldn’t help the aggrieved huff he released, “Jacques Schnee again?”

“Actually no,” she replied, earning a shocked stare. “well, not directly. Did you hear about the earthquake on the eastern coast of Solitas?” He had not. “Well, it affected a number of the mines there, caused some cave-ins. The early earthquake warning systems they set up failed to activate.”

Ozpin cocked a brow, “All of them?”

“All of them. Not just the ones predominantly run by Faunus—whether that’s good or bad I’ve yet to decide.” It was a bit of a dilemma, Ozpin would admit. If all the warning systems were set-up exactly the same, then that was a step, however miniscule, towards equality for the notoriously racist Jacques Schnee. If, however, the systems set-up for the Faunus run ones were deliberately inferior, it would have given the activists some much needed fuel for their fire.

He then scowled, banishing such callous thoughts; people were _dead_. That’s all that mattered. “What’s being done for the families affected by the earthquakes?”

“Reparations are being paid,” she bitterly spat out. “And other such vague nothings.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Leonardo entered the chat. “Ozpin, Celia,” he said with a short bow. He then paused, “You have a session soon?”

“Just came out of one, Leo,” Celia said with a sigh, and told him what she’d just gone over with Ozpin.

Now even the normally placid Faunus wore a scowl on his face, “Is that really all that will be done?”

“It was a fight to get them to admit to even doing _that_,” Celia growled. She then sighed, looking every bit her age, “Can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave all this behind.”

Ozpin inclined his head, “So you _are_ retiring.” She’d mentioned it in passing for the past decade. “Why now?” he asked.

“Why else? I’m tired,” she bluntly answered. “My joints are starting to creak, my muscles are sagging, I’m finding new wrinkles every time I see my reflection!” She huffed, “This—all of this, not just running an Academy—needs a fresh and quick mind and body.” She smiled ruefully, “I’d say you should join me, Oz, but, well, we all know you _can’t_.” Indeed; retirement would never be an option for him. Could never be an option.

“Does this mean you’ve officially chosen James Ironwood as your replacement?” Leonardo frowned, “You believe he’ll hold true to our cause?”

“I do,” she said with a soft smile. “He wants peace—not just for Atlas or Humans—but for all that walk Remnant.”

“I’ve spoken with James on numerous occasions, Leonardo,” Ozpin spoke up when Haven’s Headmaster made to argue some more, “and I believe him to be an adequate inheritor to Celia’s position. A bit trigger-happy, perhaps,” he conceded, “but resolute in his desire for peace.” He frowned, “Still, be careful in broaching our more…abstract goals and affiliations.” Celia nodded wordlessly.

“Speaking of trigger-happy,” Leonardo huffed, “have you discovered anything else on this mystery Huntsman, Gearman?”

Ah, now came the hard part. Ozpin resisted the urge to straighten his spine, “His name is Gehrman. And I believe I’ve filled in some of the blanks.” Not a lie, yet. “Tell me, do either of you remember Arthur Watts?”

Leonardo grimaced; a much more subdued reaction compared to Celia’s disgusted groan. “What does that disgrace have anything to do with this?”

“You recall his attack on the CCT?”

“Do I ‘recall’?” Celia sniffed, “Do I ‘recall’ the work of a madman with a god complex? Do I recall the fear in the air when those bombs blew up? Do I recall—oh!” she gasped.

“You believe Gehrman was a Hunter whose data was lost during Watt’s suicide attack on the CCT servers?” Leonardo hummed, “You’d think one of us would have remembered a man of his…stature.”

“Unless he was an independent Huntsman,” Celia replied, “and it was their servers that were the most affected. Still, why did he not come in when we sent out the call for reregistration?”

“He’s lived off-the-grid for a long while,” A not-lie.

“And the fact that he never came in to accept payment on a job, or even to receive one, and find out his information had been erased?”

Another not-lie. More of an inference, really. “He cares not for bounties.”

“Excuse me?” Celia asked with an arched brow. Leonardo kept quiet, but both his eyebrows rose to new heights.

Now it was time for the truest fact he could afford to say. “He doesn’t do what he does for rewards, he told me.”

“How does he eat? Clothe himself?”

Ozpin imagined it had to do with those invisible ‘Helpers’ of his. Aloud, he chuckled, “Not everyone hates camping, Leonardo.”

The Faunus shuddered, “Do you know what animals get up to out there?”

“Probably no worse than what our students are capable of,” Celia scoffed. Leonardo’s latest shiver prompted a hearty chuckled from the older woman.

Ozpin indulged in the good cheer for a bit, let him forget what he was doing. But such good things rarely lasted in his experience, so he pressed on, saying, “I’ll re-register him, don’t worry.”

“Well, disregarding that,” Celia’s jubilant mood drifted away, “James is _still_ hounding after me to get this man her for an interrogation.”

“You mean ‘interview’?”

“James’s words, Leo, not mine.”

Ozpin hummed, “Didn’t he read the report I sent you?”

“He prefers to get his information directly from the source.”

“Well,” Ozpin smirked, “he’ll be disappointed on that front.”

“While I’m normally a fan of the slow approach,” Leonardo began, “I’m finding myself in agreement with James’s thoughts. Gehrman just showed up out of nowhere when a Silver-Eyed Warrior was in danger. How can we trust that?”

Ozpin inclined his head, “I understand your worries, truly I do.” He sighed, staring down at his hands, “But if you’ll recall from the reports, Gehrman was prepared to engage a horde of Grimm to save a woman he knew nothing about, and was prepared to face two unknown opponents, again, for her safety.”

“So he says,” Celia frowned.

“I don’t care what he says,” Leonardo grimaced, “nothing can justify what he did to Tyiran Callows.”

Ozpin shared his peers’ disgust, but still he said the truth. “I trust him.”

“You do?”

A nod. “Yes, Celia. His…methods may be crude, but his heart is in the right place. Of that, I have no doubt.”

“…As long as you trust him, Oz,” Celia eventually said.

“I do.” They stayed in silence for a bit after that, ruminating on their own thoughts.

Celia broke the silence. “Have either of you discovered anything else on this ‘Hazel’ that fled after Tyrian’s death?”

Ozpin frowned, his heart weighing heavily in his chest. “I have. It took me some time, but I’ve identified him.” He looked down at his desk, “His name is Hazel Rainart…”

**/+/+/+/+/**

Their meeting ran long, but not as long as he’d originally thought. The sun had set by the time he’d said his goodbyes, but it was only ten, not midnight. As the screen before him faded to black, Ozpin leaned back against his seat, wincing as his spine popped. He was getting older too, and the stress of his life was finally beginning to wear on this body. Still, so long as there was breath in his lungs, blood pumping from his heart, he’d work towards his goal, far-fetched it may seem at times. He rose to his feet and began the long trek to his quarters.

At times he cursed his past life for building the Headmaster’s office so far away from the Headmaster’s quarters—and not just at Beacon, but all the major Huntsmen Academies. But he knew himself, and knew that if he were allowed to, he’d never leave either of the two rooms (then he’d really have no room to lecture Glynda).

Besides, the empty corridors may have been foreboding now, but during the school year, when students either hurried to their next classes or snuck to and from their dorms, it reminded him of what was at stake. What he was working towards.

He’d made it about halfway to his quarters before a thought entered his mind. He tried to shove it aside, but it kept of nibbling at his brain until he had no choice but to follow it. Thus, he made a sharp right, away from his quarters, and towards the library.

His thought was proven correct, as on the first floor sat Gehrman, an obscene number of books piled on the table beside him, a lamp shining directly over his shoulder.

He made it halfway down the stairs when Gehrman spoke up. “Those studies you spoke of have merit,” he said without looking away from his current book. “If I were a normal man, I might heed them.”

Ozpin sighed, walking around the table to face Gehrman. When the man’s gaze stayed glued to his book, he allowed lifted his cane slightly, catching the book and slowly lowering it. “Stop that,” he said above the glare sent his way.

“I told you,” his fellow said, iron seeping into his voice, “you don’t control me.”

“No, but I am allowed to feel concern for my fellow man.” He leaned back, toying with his cane, “Even without those sleep studies, it’s common knowledge that with rest comes rejuvenation.”

Gehrman’s scowl deepened. “…I don’t want to sleep.” Before Ozpin had a chance to roll his eyes at the childish response, Gehrman continued in a softer voice. “I’ve…,” he looked down at his feet, “I’ve spent so long trapped in a Dream…”

“‘Trapped in a Dream?’” Ozpin said beneath his breath.

“A gilded cage, but a cage all the same,” the man before his said with a bitter sighed, looking as old as he’d said he was the night before. “A cage I somehow escaped but may yet be dragged back to.”

Ozpin pursed his lips, filing that all away for later. “Now is not the time to discuss this, but,” he paused, “…I shall endeavor to keep you safe from…whatever it is you fear.”

Now, Gehrman laughed, another bitter sound. He looked back up at Ozpin, eyes cold and dark, “You…You are lacking.” Ozpin managed to keep from jerking back, he’d been called a great many things, but _lacking_? “You would not be able to save me from _It_,” he hissed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ozpin mused, “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.” He let his mind wander towards this unknown threat, before remembering why he came here in the first place. “Regardless, you can’t spend your entire night here; there’s a perfectly good bed that your neglecting not five minutes away.”

Gehrman clicked his tongue, “Very well, I shall attempt to sleep. Allow me to put the books away.” Ozpin nodded, and wordlessly assisted Gehrman in this endeavor, occasionally swapping books around so that they at least partial resembled the filing system.

He then once more led Gehrman to his guest room. When the man hesitated to enter, he solemnly stated, “Please, all men need rest. Men like you and I especially.”

Gehrman didn’t say anything, but he did enter the room.

“I’ll see you at dawn,” Ozpin called as the door slid shut. He stood in place for a few moments, before turning around, heading towards his own bed.

**/+/+/+/+/**

**Gehrman leered at the bed. His heartbeat sped up, and his instincts were screaming at him to flee. But his more rational mind proved an anchor in light of his inner turmoil. If, _if_, It were to try and enslave him once more, surely, by now, It would have done so. Perhaps the Hunter who freed him from the dream proved an adequate replacement, or better yet, the Hunter and Demon killed one another, granting the former peace, and the damning the latter to see all its plans fall to ruin.**

**If that were so, though, would Great Ones not roam the world with abandon? For all Its monstrous acts, It was one of the few reasons men and women the world over were not driven mad by ignorant, if well-intentioned, beings from the Cosmos. Of course, that madness seemed to oversaturate Yharnam, but not even Gehrman could place all the blame of It; man’s greed did more than its fair share of damage.**

**He shook his head with a growl. Now was not the time to focus on such things—it would only make the task at hand infinitely harder.**

**He pulled the sheets back, steeling his nerves and lying down.**

Immediately, things became weird. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting, but it was not the…the clouds he ended up lying upon. There was a soft creaking form the bed as it compressed under his weight, but it was as though he was lying on air. Even the pillow was feather-soft and sunk around his head.

He didn’t like it. It made him uncomfortable, as though he were falling from a tower and just waiting to meet the ground.

He threw the sheets off, jumping out of the bed with a heavy shudder. No, a bed would most certainly not work.

He cast his gaze to the side, eyes falling upon one of the chairs around the table. He grimaced; they had a similar shape to his wheelchair. The wheelchair he’d spent countless decades trapped in. Still, he’d promised to try to sleep.

Thus, he pulled the chair further from the table, sitting down with a shuddering breath. Unbidden, he fell upon old habits, when he’d swap the Dream for his Nightmares. He leaned forward so there was a small gap between his back and the chair, extending his left leg so his heel rested on the floor. He lay his right arm along the armrest, resting his cheek on the palm of his left hand. A familiar position, but something still felt…off.

It was only when he wriggled the toes on his right foot that he realized what that was. With a grunt, he extended his right leg to match his left. Better, but only just.

He let loose a long, drawn-out sigh. What was he doing? Who was he fooling? How could he honestly expect to fall asleep? As though the past decades simply didn’t happen? As though—

**/+/+/+/+/**

Gehrman awoke to the chime of a bell. He shot up, his chair scraping against the floor as he whirled around. The bell chimed again, and his mind finally caught up with his racing heart. The guest quarters, he was in the guest quarters of Beacon Academy.

The bell chimed once more. He followed the noise, the source being the door leading outside. He opened it, revealing a smiling Ozpin, in attire similar to Gehrman’s own, his cane pressed between left arm and body, two covered silver platters resting in his hands.

His fellow victim waved the platter up and down, “Figured we could converse over breakfast. Pleasant dreams?”

Gehrman was unable to keep the smile off his face, “No. None at all.”

**/+/+/+/+/**

**A/N: So, apparently Theodore, the Headmaster of Shade Academy, is set to appear in one of the upcoming _RWBY_ novels. And he might be evil? I don’t know, I’m just going to do what the show’s done and sidestep what should be an important character to the narrative. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

Histories

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

Gehrman hummed as Ozpin placed the trays down on the table, his cane resting against one of the legs. “Nothing hot, I’m afraid,” he said. “The cooks don’t come in until a couple weeks before classes begin, and I didn’t feel like turning on my own oven.” He uncovered the trays revealing slices of bread and various jams in one, a colorful assortment of fruit in the other—Gehrman only recognized the grapes, apples, and pears—and a small bowl of coffee grounds (along with all the necessary additives) and paper packages of…tea? He made for the kitchen, for the plates and cutlery, and to put on a pot of water, when Ozpin gently pat his shoulder. “Now, now, you’re the guest, I’m the host. Allow me.” He shrugged, sitting down at the table.

Gehrman sat down, bringing the fruit platter closer to him. He picked up a grape first, squeezing it just shy of crushing it to a pulp. In the beginning, when he first fell into the madness of his slavery, back when he had deluded himself into thinking the Doll was Maria come again, he conjured great feasts for them to share. Stuffed turkeys, juicy steaks, sweet wines, delectable pastries; if he’d so much as seen it once in the Waking World, he had it for himself in the Dream.

But the Dream, though blissful, was still just Dream. The food was never quite right; be it the flavor, scent, or even the texture. It was, he could recall, around the time that everything started to taste like ash upon his tongue that he shook himself free of the lunacy that was the Doll’s existence. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late to get rid of it. No matter the way in which he disposed of it, it would always come back.

He growled, halting the recollection of things best forgotten. He then popped the grape into his mouth, intent on focusing on the present.

It was…odd. Objectively, he knew that the fruit was sweet. Yet as he chewed it, let its juices seep onto his tongue, he found that that sweetness lay behind a fog. A distant memory that he’d have to work at to truly remember.

He popped another three into his mouth the expedite the process.

Ozpin returned with the plates, silverware, and glasses of water. Gehrman nodded wordlessly, grabbing himself a wide assortment of fruits and jams—only one kind of bread, however. He ate swiftly, eager to not only get used to actual food once more, but also to get on with their day.

“Hungry, I take it?” Ozpin asked, far more subdued in his eating.

“No particularly,” Gehrman replied, taking a long sip to quench his parched throat. “But we have a long day ahead of us, and if I focus on reacquainting my palate, we’ll lose far too much time.”

“You didn’t have food in your—what did you call it—Dream?”

“For a time, I did,” he admitted. “But soon enough I realized—as I mentioned last night—a cage is a cage.” He stopped eating, a scowl overtaking his features, “No matter how appealing its trappings.”

Ozpin opened his mouth, no doubt to prod further into the nature of Gehrman’s prison. Only for a shrill whistle from the kettle on the stove to cut him off. “Ah, that’d be the water.” He stood back up, “Tell me, coffee, or tea?”

“Tea. Can’t stand coffee.” At Ozpin’s incredulous stare, he shrugged, “Too bitter.”

Ozpin returned with the kettle, shaking his head. “You can always add things to it to make it sweeter. Sugar, milk, honey,” he said, adding all three of those things into his cup of coffee.

Gehrman rolled his eyes, “If I wanted sugar, milk, or honey, I’d just have a spoon of sugar, a glass of milk, and a dollop of honey.” He then stilled, an ancient memory bubbling to the surface of his mind. As the memory took shape, let out a short laugh.

“Hmm?” Ozpin gently inquired.

The First Hunter shook his head, his smile growing wider. “It’s…I’ve had that very same argument countless times before.”

“Oh? With who?”

“An old friend,” Gehrman’s smile shrank a bit. “Laurence.” It was hard, to think of his friend. The man who convinced him to enter a contract with It in the first place. The man to whom a majority of the problems that plagued Yharnam could be traced, albeit indirectly.

One of the men that pushed them all towards that Hamlet.

He quickly abandoned that line of thought, reaching out for one of the tea packages. “So, how do I do this?”

“You…don’t know how to make tea?” He took a short sip of his coffee, cocking a brow, “Or are you asking how a teabag works?”

“The latter.”

“Ah. Well it’s quite simple.” It really was, and not a minute later, Gehrman was enjoying a nice cup of mint tea. They sat in silence after that, the only sounds in the room being the sips of their drinks, and the clicking of their cups against the table.

“So,” the First Hunter said, setting aside his cup as Ozpin made himself another, “who goes first?”

“I’ve a very urgent question,” Ozpin sternly stated. Gehrman frowned, straightening his spine and giving the man before him his full attention. “I must know; how do you spell ‘Yharnam’?” A smile bloomed across his face, “My attempts to look into the city were heavily stalled by that.”

Gehrman’s lips twitched, but he did not wholly reciprocate the gesture. “It is spelled Y-H-A-R-N-A-M.” He paused, recalling some more important geographical information. “The city lay in the heart of the country of Phtumera—that’s P-H-T-U-M-E-R-A. The latter for the name of an ancient civilization—Pthumer_ia_, with an I-A—that fell to ruin, and the former for one of that civilization’s more famous Queens.” Unbidden, a tall, gaunt, pale woman in a white, blood-stained dress flashed in his mind. An infant’s cries echoing in from everywhere and nowhere. He cleared his throat, “Yharnam was also nestled within vast forests—I don’t believe they had any official names—and a sea to the northwest—the Sea of Cain, it was called.”

Ozpin hummed, staring at Gehrman with a pensive frown, “Anything else you can recall?”

Gehrman’s mood soured a touch; yes, he recalled a great deal. “Within the woods lay an institution, the College of Byrgenwerth—that’s B-Y-R-G-E-N-W-E-R-T-H,” he added as Ozpin’s brows knitted together. “There was also,” he took a deep breath, “Cainhurst—C-A-I-N-H-U-R-S-T—home of the Cainhurst nobles. A massive castle on an island that lay across the Sea of Cain.”

“Cain and Cainhurst…” Ozpin trailed off.

“Familiar?” Gehrman spent some time researching the places he knew, before other topics caught his interest. The moon was _broken_ for heaven’s sake.

“Not at all,” Ozpin replied with a heavy frown, “and considering my personal history, that’s…concerning.

“What_ about_ your personal history makes that concerning?” Gehrman leaned closer, eyeing the man. He focused his vision, looking beyond human sight. Ozpin was human, of that there was no doubt. But his body…it was covered in a blurry, green shadow. It expanded and shrank violently, overshadowing his physical form in one moment, and being dwarfed by it the next. Highly peculiar.

“I am…old,” Ozpin slowly replied.

“I’ve gathered,” the First Hunter said evenly, eyes flicking to Ozpin’s gray head of hair and the odd wrinkle that marred an otherwise youthful looking face.

“I was alive back when the moon was whole.”

Gehrman narrowed his eyes, that _was_ old. “You…change your appearance regularly?” Ozpin’s eyes widened minutely. He preempted the question on the man’s lips, saying, “I can see beyond your fleshly trappings. It’s not much,” he shrugged, “but there is…more to you than the average person.”

Ozpin huffed through his nose, “A great deal more.” He smirked lightly, “Unfortunately, I lack your sight. I can _feel_ the shift of magic around you—like a tingle down my spine—but that is all.” He leaned back against his chair, reaching out and pulling his cane onto his lap. “The magic I feel is _old_, however. Far older and colder than anything I’ve ever felt.”

“Cold?” Gehrman had heard of a great many descriptions for the energy of the Cosmos; cold was not one he heard often. The Great Ones, for all their madness, knew that men had an aversion to certain things. Reminders of death chief among them. Instead, they were reminded of life—surrounded by an indescribable and ever-present warmth. Even _It_ did It’s best to lull them all into a false sense of security by mimicking the well-intentioned gestures of its kin. It was only those that tried to seek the power of the Cosmos without a Great One to act as an intermediary that felt a chill seep into their very souls. They achieved their goals quickly.

They were quick to die as well. Mankind needed the Great Ones for a reason, after all. Just as the Great Ones needed mankind.

“What of you, then?” Ozpin’s voice broke through Gehrman’s thoughts. “You are like me, but not entirely so.”

“No,” Gehrman said. “My body is the same, in a sense.”

“What sense?”

Gehrman hummed, drumming his fingers against the table. “When I first entered my servitude, my jailer granted me a gift.” And it was a gift. No matter all that had happened, even now Gehrman could not help but be grateful for it. “A type of resurrection. If I were to die, my body would fade into mist, and be reconstituted in the Dream.”

“Your cage?”

“It had its uses,” he shrugged.

“How did you escape it?” Ozpin asked. “From what I’ve gathered, your jailer—as you call it—had you on a very tight leash.”

“I died,” the First Hunter said with a low smirk.

Ozpin grunted amusedly, muttering something beneath his breath. Aloud, he asked, “What changed, then?”

Gehrman’s good mood dropped, somber reflection overtaking it. “The nature of my death. The one who killed me.” At Ozpin’s arched brow, he chuckled, “I suppose you could call them my last student.”

“Oh.” The man across from him grew sadder at that, posture slackening as his face twisted into a form of empathetic grief. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gehrman easily replied, “I was trying to kill them.”

Ozpin’s empathy faded away into confusion. “Explain.”

“They’d come to Yharnam for,” he paused for a moment, thinking back on the last Hunter, “some reason or other.”

“Excuse me?”

“It didn’t really matter. To be honest I didn’t think they’d amount to anything.” Most foreigners didn’t. “In the end, after they’d bloodied enough streets, I offered to release them from the Dream.”

“Others can enter the Dream?”

“On a temporary basis.”

“Why?”

“_To smother infants in their cribs_,” he internally sighed. Aloud, he replied, “Yharnam is home to numerous healing rituals and implements. The Hunter was a foreigner who’d sought to heal some sort of sickness; entering the Dream expediated their healing. They ‘payed off’ their debt by killing beasts.” He leaned back in his seat, “May I finish my tale, uninterrupted?” Ozpin took a moment to think it over. Eventually, he nodded. “Well,” Gehrman continued, “they paid their debt, in the end—with considerable interest.” Even now, Gehrman couldn’t help but be impressed; countless people had given their lives to even glimpse a Great One, and the Hunter had killed at least two. “I offered them the chance to leave peacefully, but they refused. We fought, I lost, eventually, and somehow,” he spread his arms wide, “ended up here.” He gestured to Ozpin, “Now, ask your questions.”

Ozpin pursed his lips, “This Dream…what purpose did it serve? Why were you linked to it?”

Gehrman sighed, “It was meant to be a safe haven for us Hunters. Where we could train or regroup as necessary. I was chosen to be the keeper of the Dream.”

“Why you?”

Once upon a time, Gehrman had spent many sleepless nights asking that same question. Why him? Why not Lawrence, or Master Willem? In the end, he could only think of one answer. “I was the First Hunter. The one from whom all Hunters, the first ones, at least, learned their craft.”

Something lit up in Ozpin’s eyes. “You were Yharnam’s champion?”

Gehrman scoffed. “Nothing so noble.”

“Come now,” the man before him smiled, if a bit frostily, “You defended innocents from the monsters of the night.”

“I put down rabid beasts,” he countered, “regardless of the time or place.” Of course, it had been years since he actually did that. But he could still remember the early days of the Hunt, before it became too much to handle on his own. Flitting through the shadows, keeping watch for anyone with a bit too much hair on their bodies, teeth just a bit too sharp, voices a bit too raspy. No matter how young or old. “I was a butcher, no more, no less.” He shook his head with a sigh, leaving the memories in the dark where such deeds belonged. “Regardless, that’s not what It wanted me to do.” Ozpin leaned forward a bit. “The Dream needed a…watcher, of sorts. Someone to help keep everything together.” He leaned back with a sigh, “In the beginning, I was allowed to leave whenever I wanted. But as I grew older, less subservient…” he trailed off, heart beating faster as he flicked his gaze down to his right foot. He wriggled his toes, willing himself to calm down. “…Better to keep me close, I’d imagine.”

Ozpin’s eyes narrowed, a question on his lips. But he seemed to think better of it, instead asking, “Your jailer, does he—she? It?—have a name?”

“_It_,” he growled, “wasn’t fond of conversation…But over the years some people I knew took to calling it Flora.”

“Flora?” Ozpin grinned, “It looked like a plant, then?”

“It took the form of an emaciated corpse, with black skin, bloody ribs sticking out from its spine, and a blank, hole-riddles face from which countless inky tentacles flowed like sewage.” He grinned when Ozpin paled, “Laurence was just being cheeky.” The Doll also insisted on calling It Flora when the opportunity arose. If he didn’t know any better, Gehrman would have thought it was trying to aggravate him.

Ozpin cleared his throat, “Er…right…Flora, is a god?”

“We never called them that. To us, they were simply ‘Great Ones’.”

“Them?” Ozpin repeated, “You knew more than one?” Gehrman nodded solemnly. “Did you ever meet any others?” Ozpin leaned forward, “What are their names?”

Gehrman felt his stomach drop as he travelled back to that damned fishing hamlet. The endless rain and wailing victims. Corpses falling underfoot. Kos’s orphan clawing its way through her belly.

He suppressed a shiver, saying, “Kos, Oedon, Ebrietas. Rom—technically.”

Ozpin cocked a brow, “Technically?”

“She was once a mortal woman,” Gehrman shrugged. A foolish woman, the late Rachel Olivia Mertz. A brilliant study, though; able to discern the language of the Great Ones with a certainty that drove her peers green with envy. And she had to go and use her talents to attempt to forestall Mergo’s unintended madness. A noble act, but one that just prolonged Yharnam’s suffering.

His fellow victim stilled. “She…_became_ a god?” he whispered, voice equal parts fearful and awed.

“Great One,” Gehrman corrected with a wave of his hand, “and barely at that. I never met her after her ascension, but I’d been told that she sacrificed a great deal of her mental faculties for power.” And it had worked, until that last Hunter was trapped in the Dream. The one who was able to find Byrgenwerth after Master Wilhelm locked it away. The one to finally end Mergo’s pitiful life. The one to send Gehrman here.

“To become a god…” Ozpin trailed off.

Gehrman didn’t bother correcting him again, instead saying, “And what of you?” The man jerked back lightly, to which he responded with a thin smile. “We’ve spent so much time on me, but I’m still very much in the dark about you.”

The headmaster regained his composure, his lips curling into a smirk, “Oh, how selfish of me. Please,” he gestured to Gehrman, “ask away.”

Gehrman nodded, but kept silent. He ran through what little he knew of the man before him. He had a fair number of questions that needed answers, but he decided to ask about a topic that had recently come up. “You,” he began, “seem fixated on ‘gods’.” He cocked a brow, “Am I to assume one is responsible for your existence?”

Ozpin’s smile remained, but his eyes grew colder. “Indeed. Tell me, have you read any of the folktales of Remnant?”

“No,” he answered truthfully, “I dismissed them as childish nonsense.” He grimaced, “But I’m open reevaluating my initial beliefs.”

Ozpin sighed, lifting his head up towards the ceiling, “You’d be surprised how much truth there is to those old tales.” He turned back to Gehrman, face cast in stone. “There is one tale, the ‘Brother Gods’. The story has had numerous retelling—each with their own liberties—but the basics are as follows. The God of Light and the God of Darkness—they have no other names,” he added, cutting off Gehrman’s question. “The God of Light and God of Darkness were brothers who created the world and all the creatures that inhabit it. Specifically, the God of Light created Mankind—and the Faunus,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “But the God of Darkness grew jealous of his brother’s achievements and created the Grimm, to hunt the God of Light’s own creations.” Ozpin sighed, looking very much his age, “And so the good people of Remnant have spent an eternity living in fear of the dark and the monsters laying within it.”

Gehrman scoffed, “And what was the God of Light doing while that was going on?” Then, a thought, a terrible, logical thought. He smiled grimly, “Ah…_that’s_ where you come in, isn’t it?”

Now, Ozpin smiled. A cold, mockery of one, at least. “Ages ago the God of Light chose me to lead the people of the world against the tides of darkness.”

“Why you?”

His fellow victim’s smile thinned. “I’m a noble soul, I’ve been told.” Gehrman knew that wasn’t the whole truth; Great Ones—or any creature that held power—rarely did things on whims. But he wouldn’t prod. His own past was dark and murky, and he wouldn’t be shedding any light on it anytime soon. Perhaps ever.

“So, what?” Gehrman asked, “You’re just going to stand vigil over the people of Remnant for all eternity?”

Ozpin shook his head, “Not for eternity; there’s a goal I was tasked with achieving.” Gehrman cocked a brow; if Ozpin had been alive for at least three-thousand years then it must have been quite the task. Beacon’s headmaster leaned back against his seat, staring down at his cane with a wistful expression. “When all the people of Remnant stand united in the name of peace…I shall be allowed to rest.”

Gehrman let out a bark of laughter. At Ozpin’s scowl, he smirked. Then frowned. “Apologies, but _all_ people? Really? At least my jailer gave me a task within the realms of possibility.” A damnable task in which he was subjected to his own living hell, but a realistic task all the same.

His fellow victim’s scowl deepened, only for resignation to quickly take its place. “Yes…it is hard, at times, I will admit. But,” a small, soft, heartfelt smile overtook his features, “I do believe that my faith shall be rewarded, in the end.”

Gehrman sincerely doubted that. He’d only been alive for a measly three hundred years, and he _knew_ that mankind was built for conflict. Couldn’t get ten people in a room together without someone wanting to kill at least one other person. To say nothing of mankind’s greed. No, Ozpin had been given an impossible goal; worse, he seemed to believe it was an possible one. Regardless, he wouldn’t burst the man’s bubble. Let him live in his delusions. So long as he didn’t try to drag Gehrman into them, they’d get along fine.

“Three-thousand years,” he drawled. “That’s quite long time to spend guarding the world.”

“I take breaks,” Ozpin replied genially. “Helps stave away burnout.”

“Burnout?” Gehrman queried.

The man before him blinked, “Ah, it’s a term which describes someone who’s hit the breaking point, with regards to their occupation, specifically. You should familiarize yourself with the current slang; make yourself stand out less.”

“I shall take that into consideration,” Gehrman said with a grin. He then schooled his features, leaning forward, “I’d like to discuss a tangentially related topic, if you’d allow?”

“By all means.”

“The Grimm,” Gehrman paused, thinking how to best phrase his query. “…How durable are they?”

If Ozpin found the question odd, he didn’t show it. He hummed, “Fairly durable, I’d say. It wasn’t until people discovered how to smith steel—and utilize Dust—that they really started making headway against them. Wait,” he narrowed his eyes, “do you mean to tell me that you and your people never fought Grimm?” When Gehrman shook his head, he continued, “Then what, exactly, did you hunt?”

“Oh,” Gehrman sighed, “all manner of rabid beast.” When Ozpin’s stare deepened, he contemplated his next words. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—say anything about the Blood. But he could bend the truth a touch. “There was a great disease—a plague, really—that afflicted Yharnam and the surrounding area. If not caught early on it would…mutate, the afflicted.”

Ozpin gasped, horror overtaking his features. “You…you killed _people_. That’s why you were so blasé over Tyrian Callows’s death.”

Gehrman grunted, “Much different than the ‘Darkness Incarnate’ your people have to contend with, I know.”

“You killed the _sick_…”

“We did,” Gehrman said with a slow nod. Some Hunters tried to dress it up—Ludwig and his ‘Holy Knights’ especially—but there was no getting around it. “But this disease…there was no cure, once it reached a certain stage.” After all, how could you cure someone of their own blood?

Ozpin’s breathing had started to shallow, only for him to regain his self-control. He stared at Gehrman, eyes like steel. “What are the chances of this disease reappearing?”

The First Hunter took a deep breath, truly considering the question. There’d be little he could do if his spilled blood was lapped up by some animal, but so long as he didn’t transfuse his blood with anyone else’s, no true Beasts would walk Remnant. “…Low-to-none,” he finally said.

“Really?” Ozpin cocked a brow.

“I swear it.”

“…What are the signs of infection?”

Gehrman sighed, but answered all the same. “It’s different case-by-case, but basics are as follows. The first stage is the body changing in an extreme way; either growing and extraordinary amount of muscles or losing far too much weight. And the limbs and neck will elongate on top of that. Following that, their teeth will fall out in favor of fangs, and they will most likely begin to grow hair all along their bodies.” He paused, recalling what else marked a soon-to-be Beast. “…Towards the end of the stage their mental faculties will deteriorate. At first, it will manifest as a sort of single-mindedness, wholehearted devotion to a single task. Then,” he waved his hand flippantly, “they will become little more than a rabid animal in need of being put down.”

Ozpin pursed his lips, “That is a very…macabre picture.” Gehrman decided against listing the various other kinds of changes the Blood could bring about. On top of not wanting to burden his fellow man further, whatever Beast Plague that might come to pass would more than likely follow the strain that afflicted Yharnam.

“Assuming you can find anything more on Yharnam,” he said, “I’ve no doubt you’ll find out more about the affliction than I can tell you.” Even as he said that, though, he hoped Ozpin wouldn’t. If any records existed of Yharnam in this strange world he found himself in, then they’d no doubt detail the Blood ministration that made the city famous. And then, well, Gehrman would either be put to death, or strapped to a table and carved to bits. Either way, wouldn’t accept such a fate lying down. But all the same, he’d prefer not to have to fight the man before him.

Thankfully, Ozpin grew tired of the conversation. He rubbed his temples, “We were speaking of the Grimm before all…this,” he said with a wave of his hands. “Something about…their durability.” At Gehrman’s nod, he continued, “Whatever for?”

“Because,” the First Hunter snapped his fingers, his Burial Blade and firearm rising from the center of the table, “my blade sank through their flesh as if it were butter, and my firearm tore holes into them as if they were paper.”

Ozpin’s eyes widened imperceptibly, his gaze focusing on the weapons. He looked towards Gehrman, gesturing at the items. Gehrman nodded, and he reached for them—the firearm first. Ozpin turned it over in his hands, humming. “Rather bulky,” he said.

“There’s a mechanism within that allows me to switch between a spread-shot or singular bullet.”

Ozpin frowned, “I don’t see how you can fit two different types of ammunition here.”

Ah, right. The people of Remnant had over a dozen different types of ammunition for over a dozen different types of firearms. The Hunters of Yharnam had never contend with that, Quicksilver bullets were very much ‘one size fits all’. The only limitation being how many bullets were consumed at once. The Powder Kegs always tried to find a way around that. It wasn’t until they nearly blew-up the Workshop that Gehrman finally put an end to their experiments.

Their cannons were fun to use, though.

“How,” Ozpin’s voice brought him back to the present, “do you switch between the two different types?”

Gehrman considered an honest answer to the question. Unfortunately, that answer involved his Blood. And considering the previous topic of conversation…He simply said, “Trade secret.”

Ozpin glowered a bit, but dropped the matter, nonetheless. He moved on to the Burial Blade. His eyes narrowed as he grabbed the hilt. “Is it…glowing?” At Gehrman’s nod, he asked, “What is it made of?”

“Siderite,” he answered.

Ozpin sniffed, running his free hand along the flat of the blade, “This is like no meteoric metal I’ve ever seen…”

The First Hunter chuckled, “Unfortunately, I’ve only ever known the one kind.”

“You have more of this?”

Gehrman shrugged noncommittally—the Little Ones could likely scrounge up some scraps. He’d most likely end up delirious from blood loss, but they’d get him some in the end. “Careful,” he said when Ozpin raised his hand to touch the outer edge, “it’s sharp.”

At that, Ozpin chuckled, “I’m not some schoolyard boy,” he said, “rest assured, I’m not going to bleed on the—!” he gasped, dropping the blade on the table.

Gehrman stood up, “What’s wrong?!” He looked down at the Burial Blade, growing puzzled at the lack of blood. The blade, however, had lost a bit of its shine.

“M-My Aura,” Ozpin said, clutching his right hand as he stared fearfully at the Burial Blade, “it…it was _drained_!”

Gehrman blinked, then sank back into his seat with a hum. “I see…so that’s what happened.”

Ozpin lifted his head up with a glare, “What happened?”

The First Hunter considered how best to approach the question. He said, “In Yharnam—and everywhere else, as far as I’m aware—we did not have Aura.”

“You mean,” Ozpin gasped with wide eyes, “your people fought,” he grimaced, “…they went to battle while _lacking_ the protection Aura provides?” His bewildered expression quickly went away, however, stoicism overtaking it, “No wonder you entered a contract with a god.”

“Naturally,” Gehrman replied, glad to once again sidestep the issue of the Blood. As a bonus, it seemed that Ozpin had yet to notice the change in the Burial Blade.

“Your weapon lost its shine.” Never mind. Ozpin shook his head lightly, “You were saying?”

Gehrman sighed, “Yes.” He picked up the blade, frowning at it, “Before waking up, I’d never encountered Aura before.” He smirked, “Upon researching it, I’d developed a theory as to what happened when I killed Tyrian Callows—his Aura ‘broke’ as your literature describes it.”

Ozpin’s glare returned. “That’s a very dangerous ability…but it doesn’t appear as if you can use it with abandon, lest you risk the weapon’s destruction.” Gehrman resisted the urge to curse. Still, it would appear that Ozpin was under the impression that once broken the Burial Blade could not be fixed. That was good, he could work with that, if the time ever came to it.

He then banished those dark thoughts with a chuckle. “Still discovering Aura did fill in the blanks with regards to Tyrian Callows’s recklessness.”

Ozpin scoffed, “Don’t let one madman color your worldview. Trained—and sane—Huntsmen are not so foolish.”

Gehrman’s lips spread into thin smirk, “Is that a threat?”

Where Gehrman smiled, Ozpin frowned. “A promise,” was all he said. He then rose to his feet, “I think this is a good a place to stop as any.” He glanced down at his right hand, “You’ve given me much to…mull over.”

“Likewise,” Gehrman replied.

“Yet,” Ozpin continued, “I’m hesitant to leave you alone to surround yourself with books again.” Before Gehrman could attempt to argue, Ozpin chuckled. “Before you start, just follow me.” Curious, he did.

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman rubbed his eyes as he fully took in the room before him. “_This_ is a weapon workshop?”

“Oh?” Ozpin said with a giggle, “Not to your liking?”

“Quite the contrary, it’s…enormous” he all but shouted. Three floors of workbenches filled with schematics, weapon parts, raw materials. Far to the back there was a door labelled ‘Smithy’. It put the Hunter’s Workshop to shame. Which was why he turned to Ozpin, face set into a frown. “Why have you brought me here? To make weaponry, obviously,” he said when Ozpin opened his mouth with a grin, “but why?”

His fellow victim sighed, playing with the top of his cane. “Because despite the obvious mysteries surrounding your existence and your utter disregard over brutally killing another person,” Gehrman rolled his eyes, “I _know_ that you want to protect the innocent from the monsters that lurk in the shadows. In light of that, I can trust you.” The First Hunter allowed himself a small grin; he felt that same kinship towards Ozpin. “I also know that people are going to ask far too many questions if you walk around with such archaic and worn weapons as yours. Is your blade’s handle made of oak?” Gehrman nodded. “Well, people haven’t used wood to build their arms in _years_.”

“I’d assumed as much,” Gehrman replied sadly. The oak handle wasn’t his first—that belonged to an old Cedar he chopped down before leaving for greater pastures—but it had been with him ever he was officially tasked with maintaining Yharnam’s Beast epidemic. However, if he ever wanted to move forward, he couldn’t be held back by nostalgia.

“Do you require a guide before getting started?”

Gehrman just smiled. “I’d prefer to figure it out on my own.”

Ozpin reciprocated the gesture. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: I’m just pulling all Gehrman’s backstory out of my ass. Be sure to leave a review, later. Probably going to have to do it more as the story continues.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

Fresh Start

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, ideas, and dreams as he bent over the workbench. The first thing he did upon Ozpin’s departure was familiarize himself with the bench’s contents. The tools alone boggled his mind; some were similar to those he knew; others might as well have been crafted by Great Ones. He did end up leaving the workshop for the library, but quickly returned upon finding the relevant reading materials.

As it was, he forewent immediately creating a new handle and firearm, instead transcribing all the Trick Weapons he knew of as blueprints. From the obsolete Beast Cutter to the mass-produced Kirk Hammer. It was the old weapons he was especially interested in. They’d abandoned them all for one reason or another—to costly, too unwieldly, too destructive, too ambitious. But in Remnant, where materials were abundant and the technology was beyond his wildest dreams, his ancient, buried ideas were once more seeing the light.

To say nothing of the firearms. Sniper Rifles especially. The ability to be at least half-a-mile away from your target and still be able to turn their brains to mush? He’d have killed to wield such a weapon in Yharnam. Would have made a number of hunts far easier and lessened the risk of blood-tainted madness. But thoughts of the past would have to be set aside until he finished the blueprints. What he would do with those blueprints, he had no clue—creating every Trick Weapon seemed a bit…excessive. But still, it felt good to make something again. For the first time in…far too long, he was engrossed in something. Enjoying something. He had to fight to keep the smile on his face from growing too wide.

The door behind him swung open with a _boom_. “Hello!” a masculine voice shouted. The First Hunter resisted the urge to whirl around and summon his weapons. As it was, he slowly turned and found himself face-to-face with a tall stack of boxes with legs. “The lights are on, so I assume someone’s in here. Be a pal?”

“Of course,” Gehrman replied, walking towards the stack.

“Oh?” the stack replied, “Don’t recognize your voice, friend.”

Gehrman reached the stack, lifting four of the boxes. He frowned; they were rather heavy. “That may be because we’ve never met.” When he moved the boxes around, granting him a clear look at the man behind the stack’s face, he had to resist the urge to flinch. The man before him was a Faunus, with a pair of white goat horns sticking out from his blonde head of hair.

“Ah!” The man said, scanning Gehrman with dark eyes, “You must be that Gearman person that’s got Glynda all in a tizzy.”

“My name is Gehrman,” he corrected the faunus.

“Got it,” the man replied. He then gestured to a workbench on the far end of the room. “You can put those down over here.” When they put them down, Tobias held his right hand out—a hand marred by burns, Gehrman noted. “Tobias Cobalt, Beacon Academy’s Quartermaster-slash-Master Blacksmith-slash-glorified inventory stocker.”

The First Hunter shook the offered limb, “A pleasure.” He turned towards the boxes with a grunt, “What’s all this then?”

“Building materials for weapons,” Tobias said with a shrug. “Gun stocks, weapon hilts, raw materials, all that jazz.” Gehrman really needed to acquaint himself with the local slang.

Aloud, he asked, “So many? I thought the Academy was closed to students?”

“It is,” Tobias squatted down, opening one of the boxes and rifling through its contents, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t occasionally get a Huntsman or Huntress who wants to spruce up their gear. Or deliver our surplus to outposts that need it. Or factory recalls. Or—well, you get the picture.”

Gehrman found himself envious over the idea of surplus materials. Even when the Hunt became public knowledge, the Hunters had to scrounge for and zealously guard their resources. Bloodstones—that wonderful, malleable material—were especially hard to come by, and more than a few people had accused him and his Hunters of stockpiling them for nefarious purposes. Supporting a Cainhurst invasion was a popular rumor.

A rumor that Maria’s presence admittedly did nothing to help quell, but Gehrman would have sooner died than dismiss the woman from their order. For more than her martial prowess, he could admit.

He tore himself away from the past, asking, “Could I possibly use these materials to create and improve my arms?”

Tobias looked over his shoulder with a frown. “Isn’t that why you were here?”

“Actually,” Gehrman gestured towards his chosen workbench, “I was in the middle of drawing up blueprints. I meant to seek out Headmaster Ozpin for his express permission to use Beacon’s materials, but if you’re the one in charge of the workshop…”

“Blueprints?” Tobias rose to his feet, dropping what looked to be a monocular back into the box. “May I…?” he trailed off with a bright smile. Gehrman nodded, leading the way. Tobias’s eyes widened along with his smile as he saw the blueprint riddled workbench. “That’s…you’ve got a lot of ideas crammed in that noggin of yours.” Gehrman just smiled—only about half of the blueprints were originally designed by him, but no one else needed to know that. “Is that…what is that?” Tobias pulled one of the blueprints closer to him—the Threaded Cane, Gehrman noted. Tobias hummed, “I see…a series of small blades, sharp on all sides connected by a cord of steel. The position of the head determines whether it’s locked into place or if the cord is allowed to extend. Can either attack a lone enemy or perform crowd control on a group. Cool,” Tobias concluded, turning to Gehrman with a grin. He had to agree. The Threaded Cane was not one of his designs—an improvement on the Beast Cutter, but not truly his—but he’d have to be a fool to discount its effectiveness. “Why connect the pieces with a steel cord, though?” Tobias asked with a frown, tracing the design, “Using gravity Dust would make the weapon lighter, and allow for a greater reach.” The faunus perused a few more blueprints, “In fact, gravity Dust could be used in a few of these other weapons.”

Aside from the fact that Gehrman still didn’t quite know all the minutiae surrounding Dust, he did have one, in his eyes, valid reason to not include Dust in his design process. “I’d prefer,” he said, “to not have my weaponry depend on a finite material. To run out of Dust while in the middle of a mission whereupon I am unable to acquire more would spell disaster.”

Tobias shrugged, “Fair enough.” He looked over the blueprints in detail, smiling and muttering to himself. He soon stopped, however, and frowned. “Wait…these weapons all have alternate forms but…none of them are guns.”

Gehrman scowled. For some reason, the people of Remnant couldn’t resist building their weaponry with the option to act as a firearm. The nobles of Cainhurst had one or two weapons along similar lines, and the Powderkeg’s, despite his admonishments, tried to replicate them. The Riflespear was a decent enough weapon, but when they tried to fully create a cannon that doubled as an axe, he had to put his foot down. He took a deep breath and said. “I am…opposed to creating a weapon that performs two jobs poorly.”

“…What?”

Gehrman sighed, closing his eyes and pinching his nose. “It’s just absurd, is all. By tacking on all the firing mechanisms and ammunition you severely affect the primary weapon. It changes how you swing it, how you block attacks, how many times you can strike something before it breaks.” He scoffed, “Oh, and the parts! All those tiny bits and bobbles—”

“That need extra maintenance and repair,” Tobias said in a soft voice. Gehrman turned to the man, who was staring up at Gehrman with an indescribable look on his face. “Plus,” he continued, “there’s the fact that by combining the two types of weapon you’re basically forgoing traditional ammunition types. All ammo _has_ to be custom-made.”

“Right,” Gehrman nodded; he didn’t entirely understand what Tobias was talking about, but if it complicated the already numerous ammunition stipulations, it couldn’t be good. Then, a thought. “Which would also be a detriment out in the world. If your weapons are entirely custom-made, then once you run out, you run out.” He sniffed, “No, let my firearms be firearms, and my weapons be weapons. No cross-contamination.”

Tobias’s jaw slackened. “…I love you.”

Gehrman jerked back, “I beg your pardon?”

The faunus flinched as well, “Er, no! Sorry, uh,” he frantically waved his arms in the air, “it’s not very often I meet someone who shares my views on proper gun usage. Pretty much never. I mean, Glynda just uses a riding crop and Glyphs, and whenever I try and talk with her about it, she just looks at me like I’m insane. Peter, well, he doesn’t let you get a word in edgewise. I mean, at least he keeps his weapon simple, but I swear to god if he didn’t have such prodigious control of his Aura, he’d have chopped off that rug on his lips. And don’t even get me started on Bartholomew!” Gehrman stepped back as Tobias’s voice rose in speed and intensity, belting out names and incidents that Gehrman didn’t recognize—nor could he, in any event.

The goat Fauus went an impressive three minutes without taking a breath. When he did, he finally noticed that Gehrman had backed away. He blushed, looking down and tweaking the tip of his right horn. “Er…sorry, again. I’ve, uh…got some opinions on the subject.”

“I’ve gathered.”

Tobias chuckled weakly. He turned back to Gehrman’s workbench, “Uh…you plan on building all of these?”

“Only some,” Gehrman replied. He rolled up the majority of the blueprints, leaving only the one for the Burial Blade, the Threaded Cane, and his custom firearm. “The others can come with time.”

Tobias looked over the three blueprints, frowning at the firearm. “What is…what kind of ammo does this thing take?”

“It’s a prototype,” Gehrman lied. “I’m experimenting with…fire dust and…slag.”

Tobias’s eyes widened, “Ah…so you can either shoot multiple pellets or melt them together into one—okay! Don’t see why you wouldn’t just have two guns, but I can dig it!” Gehrman smiled at the man’s enthusiasm and went to work.

/+/+/+/+/

The first thing Ozpin did upon returning to his office—after calming his heart and recharging his Aura—was investigate. He investigated Yharnam, Pthumera, Cainhurst, the plague Gehrman described, his gods, Siderite. He searched online, traversed up and down Beacon’s library. He even searched within the depth of his soul for whisper of familiarity. Only to come up with nothing. For the first time in a long while, he was at a loss.

Briefly, Ozpin considered the idea that Gehrman was lying. A foolish notion—whatever words came out of a man’s mouth; their eyes could never lie. There was pain in Gehrman’s eyes, pain and fatigue. A look Ozpin saw in every mirror. No, Gehrman was not a liar. Gods, how he wished the man was a liar. Thus, unable to verify what he learned, he compiled it.

The first bit was figuring out the holes in Gehrman’s tale. Well, perhaps ‘holes’ was a misnomer. More like huge, cavernous pits. The full extent of the deal between him and his gods, his gods themselves, the circumstances of his death and the one who killed him, and the origins of this horrendous plague. That last one was especially worrisome. He’d need to order a full medical examination on Gehrman; whatever microorganism was responsible for that disease could still be in his system from Yharnam—from the Dream, rather.

Which was another thing—how had Gehrman arrived at Remnant? By all accounts, the Dream was a pocket dimension which was connected to Yharnam. Assuming that upon dying in a pocket dimension someone didn’t pass on to the next life—which was something even _he_ wasn’t sure of—then Gehrman should have been deposited in Yharnam, where the dimension was linked to. Instead, he was found in one of Vale’s forests. Within a few miles of Summer Rose, who most likely would have died were it not for his interference.

Despite his long and tumultuous life, he still believed in chance. Little twists of fate that kept things from getting too dull. But Gehrman saving Summer…that was _too_ lucky. It spoke of a…special, kind of interference. The kind of interference that set him on edge. The _last_ thing he needed was some heretofore unknown god messing everything up. Not when he was so close. Not when he and Salem could finally—

He stopped himself short. He couldn’t afford to get lost in his dreams. Not when the unknown that was Gehrman’s entire being was staring him in the face. He’d have to write down a list of all the questions he needed to ask. But…to receive answers, he’d have to give some as well.

Gehrman wasn’t like anyone he’d met before. He couldn’t feel him out to determine how trustworthy he was. Within _seconds_ of meeting one another Gehrman already knew more about him than Ozpin was comfortable with. And he couldn’t kill him—not only out of a simple desire to not commit murder out of fear, but also because he wasn’t entirely sure he could. Ozpin was no fool (now, at least); he’d been chosen by the God of Light because it was supposed to make it easier for Salem to go along with his plan. Gehrman, by all accounts, was chosen to champion Flora for his marital prowess (a martial prowess earned by killing plague victims. Ozpin shuddered at the thought). And where Ozpin was beginning to feel his age (in more ways than one), Gehrman was in his prime. No, he couldn’t afford to make the man an enemy.

They were off to a good start, however. For all the blood Gehrman was mired in, he was very much on the side of angels. He wanted to protect people, and Ozpin wasn’t about to turn such desires away. He’d need to talk to him about Tyrian’s death, though; such…butchery could not stand.

Yet…that wasn’t his fault, was it. They didn’t have a chance to discuss it—they didn’t have a chance to discuss many things—but Gehrman had said it was those…Helpers of his that tore apart Tyrian’s body for…some reason. If only he could actually see them. He had to concentrate his magical might (dwindling with every life) into his eyes to observe the invisible creatures, and even then, he couldn’t actually _see_ them. There was just a warp in the space they inhabited. That had been terrifying, when he first saw it. The idea that unknown creatures existed just outside of human sight, able to tear a man apart as if he were made of paper. Had they been responsible for other deaths like that? Did they feed on humans and faunus? Did Gehrman offer to give them easy meals, and in return they acted as glorified butlers?

It was a good start to his list. A list, that, for the moment, seemed to have no end.

Before he could lose himself to an endless amount of questions, however, he received a call on his Scroll. He managed to pull himself away from his task, grunting as he saw it Glynda calling him. He laughed lightly; in light of all that was Gehrman, he forgot about the rest of his life. He filed the list away for another time, picking up his Scroll.

“Glynda!” he jovially greeted his de-facto second-in-command. “Did you have a good night’s rest?”

“Yes, Headmaster. And…thank you again,” she said through gritted teeth, “for the tactfully given break.”

He grinned widely, “I live to serve. What do you need?”

She took a deep breath, and Ozpin didn’t have to try too hard to imagine her entering her professional stance. “There’s a number of things that need looking over. The final reports of Summer’s rescue, chiefly. Tobias also sent word that his shipment has come in, so we should expect an inventory report by the end of the day. Also…” Ozpin hummed along as Glynda continued her report, pushing the mystery of Gehrman aside in favor of present issues.

/+/+/+/+/

Arthur Watts was a patient man. One couldn’t revolutionize modern society if they had the impulsivity of a rabid animal. Of course, one also couldn’t revolutionize modern society if they were constantly held back by lesser, fearful men and women.

It’s what made working with Salem such an attractive prospect; the chance to not onlt work with the closest thing to a true _god_, but one who recognized his skills? Only a fool would pass that up. Of course, his initial glee quickly vanished upon realizing what the otherworldly woman’s goals actually were. He wasn’t a fool; she wanted a way to hack into and destroy Remnant’s telecommunications systems. She wouldn’t want such a thing unless she wanted to try and throw the world back into the stone age.

But even that could be used to his advantage. What better way to apply his vast knowledge than to work with a clean slate? A world unbound by the fears and propriety instilled upon it by history. No, he’d have his due, he just had to be patient. That being said, even he had his limits.

He stopped tinkering with his latest project—a Worm that would be capable of blanking hospital records—to glare at his Scroll. Hazel and Tyrian were late. He’d come to expect such behavior from the latter—a rabid animal who encompassed every negative stereotype of his people—but Hazel was better than that. It’s why the two were paired-up more often than not; Tyrian was savage enough to perform any task, and Hazel smart enough to know when to pull back.

Unfortunately, he was unable to call them to check on their progress. They didn’t have a Scroll for him to call; no one entered or left Salem’s headquarters with Scrolls. Far too easy to track. It was safer to ‘acquire’ one, and then call Arthur’s encrypted line.

It was a nice arrangement, but one that could easily lead to frustration. Of course, there were other ways to get in contact with them; Salem had far more direct abilities tucked up her sleeves. But Salem also disliked being bothered by such trivial matters. Not enough to kill you, but enough to make a person jump at shadows for a solid week. To say nothing of the smug aura her pet—Cinder Falls—would radiate if he asked for help. Arrogant brat, thinking she was more important to their plans than _him_. He’d have throttled her if Salem hadn’t explained that—

A sharp trill interrupted his thoughts. His Scroll, finally. He picked it up with a huff, “It’s about ti—”

“Tyrian’s dead,” Hazel’s gruff voice cut him off.

Arthur stilled, then narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“The plan worked,” his peer began, “sending out that horde of Beowolves brought Ozpin’s Silver-Eyed Warrior out into the open. A woman.”

“Who was she?”

“Never got her name.” Arthur frowned; a pity, but it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out the woman’s identity.

“Anyway, we fought her, but she’s good.” Hazel growled, “Really good. Eventually I decided that we’d back off and let the Grimm wear her out. It worked.”

“Not well enough, if she managed to kill Tyrian before dying.” Arthur sighed; losing Tyrian was a set-back. For all his deplorableness, he was a strong and able combatant. Until Cinder finally started to pull her weight (something he heavily doubted, but wouldn’t dare say to Salem), Hazel was the only one that could reliably go out into the world and get things done. But they’d be fools to let him go out on missions alone.

“She’s not dead.”

Arthur stilled, mind reeling. “What?” He sucked in a breath, “You ran away?”

“Not from her!” Hazel growled. “There was…I was all set to kill her, when someone shot me. I don’t know who he was,” he preemptively cut-off Arthur’s question. “Never seen him before. He’s human, has white skin, brown hair, dark eyes, and was wearing some weird, old timey get-up. Looked like something out of a Renaissance Fair.” A pause. “And his primary weapon—a scythe—had a wooden handle.”

“Wood?” Arthur flatly replied. He didn’t doubt Hazel’s account, but really, who used wood anymore?

“Tyrian convinced me to let him have a go at the man. Wanted to have some fun.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I wasn’t planning on letting Tyrian die!” Hazel bellowed. “I was ready to jump in anyway, regardless of that idiot’s wishes. But then,” his voice quivered, and he gulped, “Tyrian’s Aura broke.”

Arthur blinked, “They fought for that long?”

“No. The guy, he shot Tyrian a couple times, but it wouldn’t have been enough to break his Aura. Not in one stab.”

Arthur gasped, “You mean—”

“Either he has a level of strength that eclipses even mine, or he has a Semblance that allows him to destroy Aura in one blow.”

“A terrifying thought,” Arthur whispered. So terrifying, that a man with such an ability would be a figure of great fame (or infamy). A man such as that would be well-known in most—no, _all_—professional circles. A man such as that would not just show up out of nowhere and miraculously save a Silver-Eyed Warrior.

Arthur grinned; he always loved a mystery. He then frowned, because Salem despised mysteries. Thus, he sighed, and said, “Get back here, quickly and carefully. Compile all you know; I want a report the moment you step foot on the grounds.”

“Copy.” Hazel ended the call, no doubt destroying the ‘acquired’ Scroll in the process.

Arthur let out a breath, knots forming in his stomach. Now, he had to report this latest development to Salem. With any luck, Cinder wouldn’t be there to make stupid observations; Salem would already be displeased, and he didn’t need to add thrashing her pet on top of that.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: I like Arthur. The other villains are kinda meh in my opinion, but I’ll always appreciate an evil genius that thinks he’s owed the world. Also, in case this wasn’t readily apparent, I’m playing around with canon. There’re certain bits of characters backstories that…don’t really work (coughcough Blake Belladonna coughcough), and I’ve already inadvertently fucked with Arthur’s personal history. Anyways, be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:  
Practice  
**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth**  
"Talking"  
"Mental Speech"  
/+/+/+/+/

“…and James has once again sent a formal request to ‘question’ Gehrman,” Glynda reported, face pinching as she looked at something on her side of the screen.

Ozpin furrowed his brow, “I haven’t received any new messages from James or Celia.”

“He sent it to me alone.” His Vice-Headmistress in all but name huffed, “I imagine he’s finally realized he’s not going to get through to you, and thinks I’ll have better luck.”

“Will you?” he asked neutrally, masking his worries. If he and Celia were wrong about James, could he persuade Glynda to go against him, in the future? The two did have a history—he wasn’t aware of all the details, but he was fairly certain it was romantic at its core. And Ozpin was all too aware of how one could be manipulated—directly or not—by love.

“No,” she scoffed, and he had to fight to keep the smile off his face. “James is being his usual, stubborn self. But he does raise some interesting points…” she trailed off with a grimace.

“You’ve received my notes of my meeting last night?” When Glynda nodded, he continued, “I intend on meeting with Gehrman again later today to iron out the ins and outs of his career.”

Glynda nodded, before freezing, blinking several times. “‘Again’?” she repeated. “You’re meeting with him ‘again’?”

Ozpin realized his mistake but managed to keep from groaning aloud. “Glynda…” he began.

“We know next to nothing about this man,” she hissed. “And you’re meeting him alone?”

“He means me no harm,” he said, poorly side-stepping the fact that Gehrman could very easily harm him if he meant it. “And it was just breakfast.” Glynda grumbled something beneath her breath; he could barely make out the words ‘trusting’ and ‘death’. Jokes on her, he’d already lost at least three lives to such circumstances. Not eager to go down that route again. Maybe he’d try death by old age this time around.

“And where is he now?” Glynda asked.

“Oh,” Ozpin clicked his tongue, humming thoughtfully, “I left him in the workshop. He needed a serious upgrade to his weaponry—”

“You WHAT?” Glynda shrieked, and Ozpin tried not to smile. Sometimes, it was too easy. “You left him in the workshop, where we house the majority of our weapons, alone?”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.” Oh, how could he go about explaining the innate kinship he felt towards the man, along with the spine-tingling fear? Perhaps he couldn’t; wouldn’t be the only thing he’d never be able to properly tell her. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “you can observe him while he works. Unless there are other pressing matters that require both our attentions?” She huffed, ending the call and no doubt heading for the workshop. He’d head down himself as well, later. See how Gehrman was able to modernize his scythe and gun.

Ozpin gasped—he’d almost forgotten about Gehrman’s claim that his gun was able to tear holes into Grimm! What did he use as bullets? Couldn’t have been Dust, or Aura-infused ammunition, as was common in the old days. Had to be something else; perhaps more of his particular type of Siderite. If he received it as part of whatever deal he had with those Helpers of his…well, that just lead to more and more questions.

He shook his head; his list was already a mile long, and it would grow longer still before they day was done. He needed to focus on something, anything, else.

That something ended up being the ring of his Scroll. He picked it up, answering it upon seeing that Qrow Branwen was calling. He’d been meaning to talk with the man.

“Qrow,” he said, “how are things?”

“Shummer,” there was a heavy slur in his words, but before Ozpin could even think about despairing, his loyal agent added, “is all bu’ in th’ cleer.”

“That’s good,” Ozpin sighed. He then huffed, “But why do you sound like you’ve been downing shots like they’ve been going out of style?”

“Can’t a man cheleberate?”

“It’s not even noon, Qrow.”

“…Annnnnd?”

Ozpin stifled a huff. “Is that all you called for? Because it could have waited until you were sober.”

“Well, there waash one other thing.” He coughed, only to devolve into giggles. “Ah…were was I…riiiiight. That Ghremin guy,”

“Gehrman.”

“Wh’ever. Tai and Sum’er want him over, onshe sheesh all better. Ta thnk him an’ such.” His coughed, voice dropping an octave, his slur mitigating, “Is it safe?”

It never failed to amaze Ozpin how quickly Qrow could shake off the effects of alcohol. It would be better if he never got drunk in the first place, but no one was perfect. He thought on the question, before answering, “From what I’ve been able to gather, I believe so.”

“And what have you ‘gathered’?”

“I shall inform you, Glynda, and the other headmasters of my findings in a day or two.”

“Woah wait a second. Glynda?”

“Is that a problem?” Ozpin knew that the pair had opposing personalities, but not enough such that Qrow would object to her inclusion to their little cabal. “She’s done enough work for me while kept in the dark, Qrow—great work, I might add. And in light of the circumstances I cannot, in good conscious, allow that to continue.”

“I’m not objecting,” the Huntsman defended. “Honestly, it’s about damn time. Lately, whenever you wanted to talk privately, she’s been giving me the stink-eye.” He let loose a bark of laughter, “Never would have imagined that little-miss Valedictorian would ever be jealous of me over anything…except for how good I look in a skirt.” Ozpin allowed himself a short chuckle over the memory of Qrow’s first days at Beacon. And many days after. “Going back a step, what have you found out about our mysterious savior?”

“Later, Qrow,” he said. “I’m still in the middle of parsing out Gehrman’s history; don’t want to give you any incomplete information.”

“Fair enough.” There was a short pause, then Qrow grunted, “Should probably head over to the hospital, relieve Tai of duty for a bit, let the girls sleep on actual beds.”

“Give them my regards.”

“Course,” Qrow replied, ending the call. Ozpin smiled softly; he was glad that he’d invited Qrow into the fold years ago. The man was skilled, intelligent, and proven himself worthy time and time again. If only his sister…he banished that line of thought with a scowl. He’d made a mistake, but so long as Raven kept to herself (even if ‘keeping to herself’ somehow translated to banditry), he would leave her alone as she desired. He had more important things to worry about anyway.

Like completely fabricating a Huntsman’s career.

He sighed, reaching into his desk and pulling out a notepad and pen; might as well get started.

/+/+/+/+/

“You’ve really never used an automatic rifle before?” Tobias asked, eyeing Gehrman critically.

Gehrman kept his eyes on the weapon in his hands—a rifle capable of firing off sixty bullets in a under a minute—and almost regretted admitting that he had not. But then, surely it would be much worse to profess competency, only to later prove that a lie. Thus he, truthfully, replied, “I’ve generally been more comfortable around pistols. The occasional blunderbuss or similarly spread-shot firearm.”

“Well,” Tobias stood a little straighter, “let me tell you that nothing can clear a room like a fully automatic rifle. Now, this particular model has interchangeable barrels, which allows you to…”

Gehrman tuned the Faunus out (well, not entirely, the specifications of the rifle were fascinating) as he practiced loading and reloading the weapon as Tobias had shown him. In truth, the (empty) loading mechanism—magazines, as they were called—were infinitely more impressive than the rifle itself—which was really just a much wieldier Gatling Gun, in his opinion. Why hadn’t he thought of such a thing? Not like it was a particularly advanced item, just a means to contain bullets and not waste time reloading.

“…I’ve been prattling on long enough,” Gehrman looked up at Tobias, who was holding his hands out. Gehrman nodded, handing over the rifle. In a matter of seconds, Tobias had disassembled the weapon, placing it in a bag which held the rifle’s ammunition, along with another disassembled rifle (a ‘semi-automatic’ as the Faunus called it). “Go on,” he held open a door labelled, ‘Gun Range: Exercise Caution’, holding the bag out, “try it out.”

Gehrman nodded, grabbing the bag stepping through the door, Tobias close behind him. The titular ‘gun range’, at a glance, felt very…sterile. There was no blood splattered on the floors nor wafting in the air (but that seemed to be common of Remnant) like the training grounds he and his Hunters used. There were no weapons laying haphazardly on racks for people to grab and practice with—there was an armory at the end of the room, and even that was immaculately kept. They were little things, but they spoke wonders of the different kinds of Hunts the people of Remnant undertook.

The range was separated into two main areas; a viewing room, and the range itself, which was filled with benches separated by thick gray walls. He entered the last one on the left, placing the bag atop it. He pulled the rifle parts—the semi-automatic rifle parts—out, slowly assembling them as Tobias had shown him. It wasn’t a particularly difficult task, though he did mix-up the gun parts once or twice. Tobias had given him an odd look when he asked the Faunus to load the weaponry as such and made bemused remarks as to what part attached where the first time Gehrman assembled the weapons, but he didn’t mind. Better to look like a fool during a practice session than die out on a Hunt.

Finally, he loaded the magazine into the rifle—slowly, and in multiple stages. Such careful actions would be the death of him on a Hunt, but speed would come with practice. And he intended to practice and practice and practice until he could wield these new weapons with the efficiency that made him a man to be admired and feared back in Yharnam.

He finished loading the weapon, double checking that everything was well, and that the rifle’s safety (a mechanism that, if nothing else, prevented one from unintentionally wasting ammunition) was in the ‘off’ position. He took a breath as he readjusted his grip into the proper form Tobias had shown him. He raised the weapon, bracing it against his shoulder and pressing his head against the stock so he could look down the ‘sight’—another invention he could have developed on his own, but never occurred to him.

He pushed aside such thoughts with a growl; he could berate himself later. He took aim towards the center of the target—which was a simple set of black, concentric circles, a black dot signifying the center of them. He took a couple breaths, pulling the trigger on his third breath. The weapon jumped in his arms, the bullet just barely hitting the outermost circle.

Tobias hummed, using his Scroll to access a ‘camera’—a wonderous device that allowed one to view distant areas in real-time—to view Gehrman’s work. “Not bad, got it inside the target circle, at least.” Gehrman nodded, returning to his firing position, this time keeping a firmer grip on the rifle’s stock. He fired another bullet, smirking when it struck just to the left of the center.

/+/+/+/+/

Ozpin frowned as he observed the closed and unlit workshop. That frown deepened upon finding an empty and organized library. In hindsight, perhaps he should have asked that Gehrman remain in one spot.

He leaned against a wall with a sigh, pulling up Beacon’s camera system. He suppressed a chuckle; if it ever got out just how many cameras were installed in Beacon—and all Academies—students would be a lot less adventurous. Or more. Societal inhibitions tended to lower every century or so. By his count, Remnant was due for a change.

It didn’t take long to pull up the day’s footage, just after he left Gehrman at the workshop. He sped up the footage, clicking his tongue upon seeing Tobias carry a tall stack of boxes into the workshop; he’d almost forgotten about that. He kept watching, switching camera feeds when they exited the workshop, Tobias carrying a large black bag and gesturing excitedly to a stoic Gehrman. He kept following them, seeing that they’d entered the gun range. He continued watching, mildly surprised to see Glynda enter the range at some point, until he finally caught up to real time and saw that no one had left.

A destination in mind, Ozpin closed his Scroll, merrily making his way to the gun range. His journey went on uninterrupted, and he opened the door to the muffled sound of gunfire. He saw that Gehrman was down the range, firing at targets. Up in the viewing room, he could just barely see the profiles of Glynda and Tobias. He decided to join them.

“Having fun?” he asked as he entered the viewing room, pouting lightly when neither of his employees acknowledged him.

“Ozpin,” Tobias said, not turning around, “where the hell did you find this guy?”

Beacon’s Headmaster grunted, walking forward to meet them, “As I recall he showed up out of nowhere from the woo…ds,” he trailed off, eyes widening as saw what struck made his employees dumbstruck.

Just below the viewing room window was a console. From that console, one could select a number of automated target courses. Gehrman was currently on the hardest one—not including the courses that took place on the live-fire ranges. It consisted of dozens of targets flying in erratic patterns for two minutes.

Thus far, out of twenty-six used targets, Gehrman had hit the bullseye on every twenty-six.

Bang

Twenty-seven.

Bang

Twenty-eight.

Bang Bang Bang

Thirty-one.

“He told me he’d never handled rifles—semi- or full-auto—before,” Tobias practically whispered in awe.

Ozpin suppressed a wince; why couldn’t the man have lied? “That’s not so odd,” he replied, “most independent Huntsmen don’t have the means to test out a variety of weaponry.”

“Most independent Huntsmen,” Glynda continued, turning to bore her eyes into his head, “also don’t successively pass—and perfectly complete—thirty firing exercises.”

Ozpin dearly wished he’d brought a mug of coffee or something—much easier to feign aloofness while drinking something. “Amazing what people can do when they’re granted the means, isn’t it?”

Glynda scowled, but whatever else she had to say was drowned out by the alarm signaling the end of the firing exercise. Gehrman lowered his weapon, turning around and staring up at them stoically.

Tobias cleared his throat, turning on the microphone, “Er, perfect score…again.” Gehrman nodded, disassembling the weapon with an ease that should have been impossible.

“Seriously, Ozpin,” Tobias said breathily, “where the hell is he from?”

“His personal information will be reuploaded first thing tomorrow,” he said watching as Ozpin placed the disassembled weapon in a black duffle bag. “Matter of fact, there’s some things I need to discuss with him before giving him his new license. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed lightly to his employees, turning on his heel and exiting the room.

Only to stop as Glynda called out. “Headmaster,” she said. He looked over his shoulder to see her pensive frown, “Is there…something we need to know? That we need to do?”

Ozpin hummed, turning back around, and shrugging, “Just that we should go back and double-check that there aren’t any more independent Huntsmen out flapping in the wind.” She had more to say, no doubt, but ignored her in favor of calling Gehrman over and heading towards his office.

“Quite an impressive showing,” he said to the man as they walked.

“Tobias mentioned a live-firing range,” Gehrman said, “with targets capable of fighting back. Let me have a go at that, and then you may rate my prowess.”

“…It wouldn’t kill you to take the compliment.”

“When I achieve something worthy of praise, I shall.” Gehrman’s words were drier than a desert, but Ozpin could see his lips twitch upward. A gesture he was more than willing to reciprocate.

/+/+/+/+/

Ozpin waited until they were settled in their seats before starting. He reached into his desk, pulling out his thoroughly used notepad. “You were born twenty-seven years ago on March 24 in the mining village of Lapin.”

“What guarantee do we have that no one will question that?” Gehrman asked, arms crossed.

“Lapin was destroyed in a freak Dust accident about twenty years ago. More than a few orphans were made that day.”

“Ah,” Gehrman smirked grimly, “how convenient.”

Ozpin sighed, flipping a page, “It doesn’t end there. You were placed in an orphanage in Vale, but a poor one in the ghettos. Very bad record keepers, your caretakers—could barely keep track of all the little feet stomping around.”

“Can I assume I kept a decent head on my shoulders?”

“You didn’t have formal schooling but had enough common sense to not commit any crimes—or at least not get caught.”

“How did I become a Huntsman?” Gehrman asked. “Can’t have been through one of your institutions.”

“There’s a dozen or so retired Huntsmen that people can go to in order to gain a Huntsman license. A much more rigorous set of trials than the four years at an Academy.”

“But I passed nonetheless.” When Ozpin nodded, the Hunter continued, “Who tested me, and how did they die?”

Ozpin clicked his tongue, “You catch on fast. Liam Rojas had a heart attack some two years ago—his records were transferred over to various colleagues but were lost in the midst of Arthur Watts suicide attack.”

“Arthur Watts?” Gehrman queried.

“A brilliant man with a god-complex,” Ozpin sighed. “From what we’ve been able to gather, he felt he wasn’t owed his dues and—”

“Decided to punish the world,” Gehrman said with a dismissive wave, “I’m no stranger to madmen and their delusions.”

“Right.” Ozpin looked down at his note pad, tracing his notes, “Let’s see…you’re going to be credited with some unexplained Grimm disappearances over the years. Not too many, but enough that you’re bank account will be well off until you get some actual Hunts under your belt. Speaking of,” Ozpin opened another one of his drawers, pulling out a Scroll and holding it out. “This is your Scroll. Don’t lose it.”

Gehrman accepted the device, looking it over. He then shrugged, snapping his fingers and dropping it in a void that appeared on the floor. “Thank you,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Just that we’re adding to your official record that you’re known to live off the grid for months at a time and that we’ve taken steps to ensure that doesn’t continue to happen.” He shifted his gaze to Gehrman, “With any luck, that little fact will explain away any awkwardness that will inevitably occur when you go in for payments.” Gehrman nodded, and Ozpin returned to the notepad. “There’s also the matter of your physical attributes; height, weight, blood type—"

“I’m AB-positive,” Gehrman quickly said

Ozpin cocked a brow, “I’m sure, but I still—”

“You are not drawing my blood,” the man coldly countered.

“You’ve an aversion to needles?”

“I’ve an aversion to having my blood drawn.”

Ozpin narrowed his gaze, something Gehrman repaid in full. Ozpin scoffed, “Very well, I’ll mark you down as AB-positive.” He scribbled it in—along with Gehrman’s vehement refusal to have his blood drawn. “Well, I do believe that’s—oh!” He cut himself off, slapping his forehead, “I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Aura. You need it.”

Gehrman frowned, “I don’t believe I need a crutch.” Ozpin let the comment slide. “But I understand that to not have it would raise far too many questions. However, will I be able to achieve it? Aura and all that encompasses it did not exist in Yharnam—or anywhere.”

“Do you have a soul?” Gehrman made to respond, but Ozpin cut him off. “That was rhetorical. You’re human—”

“Arguably.”

Ozpin filed that away for later. “You’re human, therefore you have a soul.” Gehrman still didn’t look convinced but said nothing as Ozpin got up and walked around his desk. “Now, I’m going to need to place my hand over your heart in order to activate your Aura.”

Gehrman grimaced, “Skin-to-skin?”

“No, you can keep the shirt on.” Ozpin took a deep breath, leaning down and pressing his right hand against Gehrman’s sternum. The man tensed, but otherwise kept still. “People have invented this…chant to get the ball rolling.” He laughed at the glare Gehrman sent his way. “Don’t worry, I’m something of an old hand at this.” He took another deep breath, focusing on the depth of his soul. He could feel it spark, energy welling up in his heart. With a grunt, he pushed the energy through his arm and into Gehrman’s body.

Gehrman jerked back, staring down at his body as it glowed dark red for an instant. He clenched his fists as the glow disappeared. “This is…a new feeling.”

“What kind? I’m genuinely curious, everyone reports something different their first time around.”

Gehrman just stared down at his body. Ozpin was prepared to let the question drop, when the man said, “It feels…like I’m working in a forge.” He looked up, “And you? What did you feel?”

He felt the woman of his dreams guiding him to gentle slumber. He felt four small bodies fall asleep on top of him. He felt… “Love.”

Gehrman sniffed, “How nebulous.”

Ozpin smirked, hurriedly stuffing his memories back into the depths of his mind where they belonged. “You’ve begun upgrading your weapons, yes?”

“I still need to plan out what materials I want to use, but that shouldn’t take more than a day. Less with Tobias’s help.”

“In between that I’ll teach you how to use your Aura. With any luck, we’ll be able to unlock your Semblance.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Luckily, that’s not required in a Huntsman’s official transcript.”

“And how does one go about increasing one’s Aura?”

“Improving,” Ozpin corrected.

“Are they not the same thing?”

“They are not,” Ozpin shook his head. “The…amount, I suppose you could call it, of Aura someone has is more or less set upon activation. There are techniques—primarily meditative—that can increase it,” he admitted. “But it’s far more lucrative to learn how to efficiently use as little Aura as possible to maximum effect.”

Gehrman nodded resolutely, “Then it would appear that I have more to research.”

Ozpin grunted, waving the man away with a smile, “Just make sure to clean up after yourself—and follow the filing system we’ve put in place.” He called out to the man’s retreating form. Gehrman grunted noncommittally, and Ozpin pitied Beacon’s librarians come the fall semester.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: Any gun-buffs in the audience, feel free to let me know how accurate (or not) I was. Though let me say that I purposefully ignored eye and ear protection because I’m pretty sure Aura would make those things redundant. Gehrman doesn’t have it, but he’s got alien-god blood coursing through his veins, he’ll be fine. In other news, Gehrman’s first Hunt is fast approaching. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Preparations

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Summer sighed as Yang finally drifted off into sleep, clinging tightly onto Ruby. Carefully, she pulled her arm out from under her daughter’s head, lowering her against the pillow. She took a moment to brush hair out of Yang’s face, studying her features, and doing the same with Ruby.

She’d almost lost them. She’d come within seconds of—

She pulled back with a harsh gasp, heart thundering in her chest. Her left eye—rather, the space where her used to be—throbbed, pain lancing along the scars marring her face.

“Summer?”

At once, her anxiety over…past events subsided. She turned to Tai—her rock, her _sun_—a smile on her face, ignoring the way her skin pulled under her bandages. She pressed a finger to her lips, to which her husband smiled softly, tiptoeing into the room.

“How long they been asleep?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and staring down at Yang and Ruby.

“Ruby’s been knocked out for the last ten minutes,” Summer replied, leaning against his chest. “Yang finally fell asleep just before you came in.” She tilted her head up—making a mental note to remind Tai to shave in the morning—and said, “How’s Qrow?”

“Fine,” she shivered, the rumble in her husband’s throat vibrating up and down her spine. “Still refuses the guest room, but hey, it’s Qrow. Has to make everything difficult. Left him asleep on the couch. Speaking of,” he swiveled his head around, “where’s Yang keep her markers?”

Summer huffed through her nose, “You’re such a child.” Tai hummed noncommittally, prompting a frown from Summer. Something…something was weird, but she wasn’t sure what.

“Bah,” Tai shook his head, “forget it, I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Summer smiled, turning around and poking his shoulder, “I think I’ll join you!” Tai just smiled, bending down and gently kissing her head, leaning forward and doing the same to their children. He turned around before he could see her brow furrow; a good set-up to a joke, left hanging? That wasn’t like him. Nevertheless, she followed after him, gently closing the door behind them.

And promptly ramming her hip into the vase just to the left of Yang’s room.

Summer hissed, biting back a curse and scurrying away from the offending object. “Woah!” Tai said carefully grabbing her shoulders. “Careful now.”

Summer clicked her tongue, wrenching free from his grasp. “I’m fine!” And she was, leading the way to their room and only hitting three more pieces of furniture on the way. But that didn’t mean she was in a good mood; not when Tai was determined to be either quiet or wholly supportive. It was only after she stubbed her toe on their dresser—prompting an intake of air and a soft “Are you okay?” from her husband—that she snapped.

She whirled around with a sneer. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“Wha—me?!” he repeated incredulously.

“Yes you! You’re being all,” she gesticulated wildly, “…nice.”

“Am I…not a nice person?” Tai hesitantly asked.

“Not what I meant! It’s just,” Summer groaned, “I bumped into so much stuff on the way here—which couldn’t have been more than thirty feet—and you said nothing!”

“Uh…”

Summer barreled past his lack-of-a-response. “I was expecting something like,” she cleared her throat, imitating his deeper voice, “‘Gee, Honey, you’re worse than Qrow the first time he had Tequila!’ or ‘Yeesh, better keep you out of heels!’ And back in Yang’s room, when I called you a kid? That was just begging for a pedophile joke! Oh!” she snapped her fingers, “Here’s something I’m surprised you haven’t come up with yet! ‘You know, Sweetie, now you don’t have a good excuse not to swallow!”

She was left panting at the end of her rant, glaring at her husband. Tai, for his part, had taken a couple steps back, eyes wide and hands help up in front of him. “Are…you done?”

“…Yes.”

“Good, because I’ve got something to say.” He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a…small notepad? Tai cleared his throat, “I’ve actually been giving you a break from my sense of humor.” He’d been what? “Partly because I wanted to give you a couple days to relax, and also because I’ve been compiling material revolving around your missing eye.”

“O-Oh,” Summer stammered, face flushing as sheepishness inched its way into her soul.

“Yeah, ‘Oh,’” Tai gently mocked. “My original plan was to let you ram into the furniture and fixtures until you broke down and started complaining, after which I’d remind you that _you_ were the one in charge of decorating the house; linking that up with a crack about the doctors accidently scraping out some brain cells along with your eye.” Summer snorted. “I’ve got some basic depth-perception cracks for when you miss the trash can or fail at darts.” He flipped pages, “Depending on how the girls react to everything I might ask them for some input.” Summer cooed, that’d be adorable. “And then, in about a month—gods-willing—when the doctors give you the okay to start undertaking ‘rigorous activities’,” he waggled his eyebrows, forcing a different kind of blush to creep up onto Summer’s face, “I’d wait until you were on your knees before patting your head and saying, ‘By the way, it’s probably for the best if you swallow from now on.’” He closed his notepad, with an audible _snap_. “But I guess we can start from the top.”

They stared at each other in silence. Until a broken giggle burst past Summer’s lips. Followed by another, more complete giggle. And another. And another. In the end, Summer was doubled over, tears streaming down her face. Tai swept her up in a hug, lifting her up so that she could rest her head against his neck. He wasn’t laughing, but she could feel the warmth spreading through his being.

Eventually, her laughter subsided. She sighed deeply, lifting her head up and kissing her husband’s cheek. “Thanks,” she said, “I needed that.”

“Sounded like it,” Tai chuckled. He bent down, smiling softly as brushed his thumb against her tearstains. He then frowned, “You got your bandages wet.”

Summer blinked raising her hand and pressing her fingers against the bandage. She scowled upon feeling the _slightly_ soggy bandages. “It’s fine,” she huffed.

“No,” Tai, still holding her a good half-a-foot off the ground, waddled over to their bed. He plopped her on the bed, opening the top drawer of the dresser to get (one of) their first aid kits. “You…” he paused trembling slightly, “…I’m not about to lose you because of an infection or something stupid like that.”

Summer smiled sadly, laying down on the bed, “Alright, alright. Let’s change it out.” She grinned as he stepped closer, “Any chance I can convince you to take anything _else_ off…”

Tai smiled sweetly, bending down and bopping her nose, “Nope!”

“Worth a shot.”

/+/+/+/+/

Glynda Goodwitch did _not_ fidget as she waited for Headmaster Ozpin to grant her access to his office. She did _not_ recall all the suspicious glances and accusatory looks she sent Gehrman whenever they crossed paths. She did _not_ remember the times she used Beacon’s security cameras to see what books he’d been reading in the library.

She had absolutely _no_ reason to be nervous. Not at all.

“Glynda?” The woman shot up in an instant, internally wincing at her boss’s bewildered stare. “…Come in,” he said, holding out the door.

Glynda kept her head down as she strode in, quickly taking a seat in front of his desk. A million thoughts run through her mind—it was not often that Ozpin called her for an in-person meeting. They’d chat if they came across each other, certainly, but most of their employee-employer interactions outside the school year were performed via Scroll.

Her tumultuous thoughts died, however, at the somber look on Ozpin’s face as he sat behind his desk. At once, Glynda grew nervous for a different reason—whatever she might have done (not that she did anything), she was certain he wouldn’t look like _that_.

Ozpin sighed deeply. “Before we begin,” he said, “know that I’m very happy with the work you’ve done these past few years, Glynda.” His mood lifted, a smile gracing his features, “You’ve preformed above and beyond my expectations, especially for someone who entered with so little teaching experience.” Glynda did her best to maintain eye contact and not blush under his praise.

His smile quickly died, a frown overtaking his features. “It is because of your work that I feel compelled to inform you of a…I suppose you could call it a type of promotion.” He chuckled mirthlessly, “Not the kind that comes with a pay-raise, though. No, only an increase in responsibility. And perhaps a greater apprehension towards the world at large. However,” he propped his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers, “whether you accept this or not is your choice. A choice for which you shall not be judged.

Glynda released a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. She licked her lips, taking a moment to find her voice. “Does this,” she hesitantly began, “have anything to do with your numerous…closed door meetings?”

“It does,” he nodded.

Glynda nodded absently. “And…Qrow Branwen is involved in this?”

Her boss cocked a brow, “Will my answer affect yours?”

“Not in the slightest,” she hurriedly said. Though it would be nice to be on even footing with the insufferable drunkard. Another thought came to mind, “Is Gehrman involved as well?”

At that, Ozpin chuckled, “No. At least, not more than any other person in the right place at the right time.” He sobered, “But I do need an answer, before I could even dream of explaining that.” Glynda supposed that was fair.

She looked down at her lap, clenching her hands into fists. As a child, she wanted to become a Huntress to help people. Graduated the top of her class in an effort to see that desire come to fruition. As an adult, she grew a tad disillusioned with the Huntress lifestyle—never really took well to the constant moving from job to job. It was then that she’d heard that Beacon was hiring Aides to assist the professors, and it was there that she’d found her true calling.

And now…

She pursed her lips, “I’ll still have my position at Beacon?”

The Headmaster nodded, “Should you desire it.”

Glynda took a short breath, “…Alright. Please, tell me. Let me know how I can help.”

Ozpin smiled, but it was a hollow, bitter thing. “The things I have to tell you,” he began, “go back a long, long way.”

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman hummed softly, raising his hands up and clenching his fists. He felt a pull in his gut as a translucent, crimson barrier covered his body, starting from his heart and eventually covering his entire body. He glanced at his new Scroll, seeing a picture of himself—by the Old Blood, was that an awkward experience—underneath a glowing green bar. He released the tension in his body, and his body flashed once more, and the bar disappeared. He inhaled slowly, repeated the sensation, counting. One…Two…Three…Four…Five…There! The bar above his picture filled in green; one hundred percent, it read.

Gehrman grunted, maintaining the barrier and marking down that it took five seconds to fully activate his Aura on a nearby notepad. The material he’d read—along with Ozpin’s personal anecdotes—stated that skilled users could encompass their entire bodies in Aura within a single breath. And maintain it subconsciously unless it was broken after sustaining enough physical damage. Until he achieved such mastery, he’d have to do his best to ensure he wasn’t snuck up on; well, that was just good practice to begin with.

Maintaining the barrier, he snapped his fingers, the Helpers depositing his Burial Blade—just the blade, the scythe’s new handle was still being forged—on the table, gleaming in the light. Tentatively—keeping an eye on his Scroll—he grasped the blade’s handle. Nothing. Good. It would have been a shame to have to do away with Aura—even if an all-encompassing shield could breed complacency, in his humble opinion. He moved his hand to the flat of the blade.

He sucked in a breath, withdrawing his hand with a shiver. It felt like he’d been hit by an Arcane spell—a weak one, that is. Strong spells made you void your stomach if they didn’t outright kill you. He looked back at his Scroll—the bar had decreased a bit, now reading ninety-five percent. The blade itself still held its shine. He marked that down.

Now came the real test.

He moved his hand forward, hovering over the tip of the blade. He recalled Ozpin’s look of horror as he touched the edge of the blade. Now that he thought about it, Tyrian Callows ware a similar expression as he died. At the time, Gehrman assumed it to be one’s standard reaction to death. Well, a large part of it was most likely that, but a significant portion must have belonged to the destruction of the Faunus’s second skin. What had he felt, during those last few seconds?

Gehrman ran his thumb along the blade and found his answer. He gasped harshly, pain lancing up his arm—akin to a hot knife dragging across his skin. He pulled back, looking down at his arm. There was no physical damage, but shades of pain still lingered. He looked over at his Scroll, blinking upon seeing the Aura bar only a about three-fourths full, reporting seventy-nine percent capacity. The Burial Blade has lost some of its shine, but nothing like when he killed Tyrian.

He wrote down his findings, along with some ideas of how to accurately calculate the rate Aura was drained in conjunction with both the amount of contact made with the blade, as well as how long contact was maintained.

Unbidden, a memory bubbled to the surface of his mind. A memory of a time, a place, and people long gone.

/+/+/+/+/

“Gehrman, please, for the love of the gods, don’t do this!”

Gehrman chuckled, sending Laurence a crooked grin as he took off his shirt. The bespectacled man blushed, averting his gaze. “I don’t want to do this either,” he told the scholar, “But it must be done.”

“Must it?” Ludwig said with a wince, holding out the hammer in his hands like it was a decaying rat.

Gehrman rolled his eyes, “We still don’t know the full healing capabilities of the Old Blood.”

“Which is something we’re researching at our own _safe pace_,” Laurence hissed through grit teeth. “Besides, that handful of Cainhurst nobles is a month away—they’ll be able to help us fill in the gaps.”

“Is that still happening?” Ludwig asked.

“Yes,” Laurence huffed, “No matter what Logarius says—the loon.”

Gehrman shrugged, “It’s not like Master Willem likes them much either.” He held his right arm out, “Let’s get this over with, Ludwig.”

“Sure, let me—wait a second, no!” the burly Hunter shouted, shaking the hammer at Gehrman, “Don’t think you can trick me like that!”

“But it’s _sooo _easy,” Gehrman teased, earning a short chortle from Laurence. Not even Ludwig could keep his face straight.

“Now, now, what’s all this commotion?”

“Master Willem!” Laurence gasped, bowing deeply. Gehrman and Ludwig merely inclined their heads—neither caring for the formality. “Please, talk some sense into Gehrman!”

Master Willem smirked, eyes not doubt crinkling beneath his ornate mask, “I wasn’t aware you were predisposed to self-harm, Gehrman.”

“No more than your students,” the Hunter countered with a grin. He then sobered, “And, again, this must be done.”

“But it doesn’t!” Laurence pleased once more. “If you just capture a couple of Beasts for me—”

“We are not Beasts, Laurence,” Gehrman said with a furrowed brow.

“But from those findings we can extrapolate—”

“I’d prefer to have exact knowledge,” Gehrman coolly cut his friend off, “as opposed to educated guesses.”

“Agh, why even bother?” Ludwig grunted. “Just get enough fresh Blood back in your body and you’re good as new.”

“I bother,” Gehrman sneered lightly, “because healing Blood is not an unlimited resource. It takes time to collect and store, and that which we already have is a precious commodity to be saved for emergencies.” He held his arms out, observing them, “We know that dislocated joints will mend themselves. If you’re quick enough, you can even reattach limbs. But what about having your bones broken to shards? As you said, stick yourself with enough Blood, and you will be healed. But do you truly need the excess?”

His companions were silent after his declaration. Contemplative.

Until Master Willem said, “Your logic is…present,” he said slowly. Gehrman sent him a flat look, “I can’t poke any holes in it at the moment; other than this one. Must it be _you_ that performs this test?”

Gehrman nodded sternly. “I am the leader of this fledging band of Hunters. Better I than them. Now, if there are no more objections,” he kneeled bracing his arms against the floor.

Ludwig looked helplessly at the others, before sighing and hefting the hammer, “For the record, I’m still very much against this.”

“Noted.”

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman smiled softly as memories of brighter days flashed through his mind. Only for the present to rear its ugly head in, heralded by his Scroll’s chimes. Tobias was calling him.

He picked up the device, answering it, “Yes.”

“It’s all ready,” the man said.

Gehrman’s smile returned—but it was a colder, wolfish one. “I’ll be there at once.”

/+/+/+/+/

Glynda took a deep breath, trying (and failing) to still her trembling hands. “So…you were the King of Vale? The one who united the Kingdoms and founded the Academies?”

Ozpin chuckled, waving his hand flippantly, “It was one of my more glamorous lives, to be certain.”

“And…for the past…eons…you’ve been fighting some sort of shadow war with this…Grimm Empress?”

“Salem,” he said with a deep frown, “yes.”

“And the Maidens…and the Relics…Silver Eyes…gods,” she laughed, perhaps a touch hysteric, “are all the old myths true?”

“Eh,” Ozpin moved his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “The better question,” he grinned, “is whether or not I’m the source of them?” Glynda shakily reciprocated the gesture.

She took a moment to compose herself. And then another. And another. Finally, when she was able to keep from shaking, she set her shoulders, looking Ozpin in the eyes. “What do you need me to do?”

“For now? Nothing more than you’ve already done. However, when my ‘closed door meetings’ occur, you can feel free to sit in on them.” He shrugged, “It’ll be good practice for when you become Beacon’s Headmistress.”

“Oh, thank y—WHAT?!”

_Briiiing…Briiiing…Briiiing_

Ozpin ignored her justified outburst in favor of answering his Scroll. “Tobias!” he said jovially. His smile grew wider, “I see. Thank you for informing me, I’ll be down shortly.” He ended the call, nodding at Glynda, “Tobias was kind enough to inform me that Gehrman’s weapons are fully manufactured.”

Despite her previous ire, relief washed over Glynda. “So, he’ll be leaving soon?”

“Tonight, perhaps. Tomorrow at the latest.” At her surprised stare, he huffed, “If you’d bother speaking with him, you’d know he’s going stir crazy.” Glynda blushed but stayed silent; not her fault she wasn’t fond of a man that tore someone apart without a second thought.

Ozpin grunted, “Do you have any other questions at the moment? If not, know that I’m available at any time should you think of any.”

Glynda nodded thankfully. Until she remembered his earlier statement. “Wait, what was—”

“Great!” The headmaster stood up, walking around the desk, “I think I’ll go down to the armory; see if Gehrman’s actually leaving tonight.”

Glynda spluttered for a moment, before settling into a simmer; for a man countless millennia old, he was astoundingly childish.

/+/+/+/+/

“…and that’s all there is to know about your new handle,” Tobias stated proudly, gesturing the item laying on the table before them.

Gehrman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I designed the object, Tobias, I know the specifications.”

The goat Faunus blushed, scratching his cheek bashfully. “Er…sorry. But most student’s come in with their weapons already made, and really just come to the workshop for repairs. Been a while since I’ve been able to, you know—”

“I understand,” he said with a raised hand. He stepped forward, picking up the cylindrical handle. Upon further researching the technological advancements of Remnant, the first thing he wanted was for his new handle to be able to extend and shrink at the touch of a button. At the moment, the handle was in its compact form.

He stepped back, holding his hand out and pressing the button inlaid on the side until it was flush with the cylinder. It did nothing. Nodding, Gehrman applied more pressure, sinking the button into the handle. In an instant, the handle expanded, metal shooting out both ends until the handle was six feet long.

The First Hunter hummed, flipping the handle over and sliding it down until he was holding its end. There was a slot at the end, crafted to latch onto his Burial Blade’s handle, not letting go unless a specific movement was performed. He pulled his blade off of his hip holster, holding it level with the end of the handle. Carefully, he slid it onto the handle, nodding when it clicked into place.

He adjusted his grip, weighing his new scythe in his hands. Good balance so far. He moved back, motioning for Tobias to do the same. When the quartermaster did so, Gehrman gave his blade some practice swings. He nodded appreciatively—it was lighter than he was used to, but it felt good in his hands, nonetheless.

With a twist and pull, he detached the blade from the handle. Pressing the button again made it retract into its compact form. He repeated the transformation a few more times.

“You like it?” Tobias asked as Gehrman turned the handle over in his hands.

He nodded. “Very much.”

“Better than wood, huh?”

“That remains to be seen,” Gehrman replied with a smirk. He holstered his blade and pocketed the handle—he could practice with them later. “And what of the firearms? And the cane?”

“Right here.” Tobias walked over to the table, bending down and picking up two large black bags, the Threaded Cane held in one of the bags’ loops. He placed them on the table, chuckling, “You, uh, plan on supplying an army?”

“Only myself,” Gehrman said, walking over and grabbing the cane. He ran a hand along the edge, satisfied with its sharpness. He flicked his right hand, the cane transforming into its whip form. He gingerly pinched the pointed tip, pulling it out until the whip grew taut. He let it go, smirking when it snapped back into place. Another flick of the wrist, and it was a cane once more.

He then turned his attention to the bags. One bag held pistols and shotguns. The other held a sniper rifle—which he couldn’t wait to use on a Hunt—and a two different assault rifles; full and semi-automatic. Each bag also held a good amount of the appropriate ammunition.

He clicked his tongue; until he figured out a reliable way to implement Quicksilver bullets with Remnant firearms, ammunition would his most costly expense. Of course, unless he found a reliable source of blood, Quicksilver bullets themselves would become a valuable resource. Remnant didn’t have Yharnam’s Blood ministration, but there were these things called ‘blood banks’ that required further study.

“I take it everything’s on the up and up?” Gehrman turned around, nodding as Ozpin strode into the workshop. “That’s good to hear.” He came to a stop just a few feet in front of Gehrman. He stamped his cane on the ground, clasping the tip with both hands. “I take it you plan to leave by tonight?”

“Yes,” Gehrman nodded. “Though I appreciate the hospitality…I’ve spent far too much time cooped up in here.”

“Fair enough,” Ozpin replied. He then pulled out his Scroll, “I did you a favor and pre-selected some jobs for you to complete—a way to ease your way back into official hunts. You should have them…now” Gehrman grunted, opening his own Scroll and opening the sent electronic mail. There were three jobs contained in the message. Simple jobs, reporting small number of Grimm in need of eradicating. Though there was something…

The First Hunter furrowed his brow, “All of these hunts are in Vale. Want to keep me close for a bit longer?” Ozpin shrugged, saying nothing. “Very well. Is there a transport available now?”

“Woah!” Tobias spoke up for the first time since Ozpin entered. “Right now? Don’t want to stay for a bit longer?”

Gehrman shook his head, grabbing the bags and hoisting them on his shoulders (he could have summoned the Helpers to carry the bags right then and there, but they were still being obstinately shy. They’d come if he pressed them, but there was no need to trouble the little things). He smiled coldly, “There are Beasts that need slaying.”

Tobias scratched the base of his left horn, “I…guess.” He shook his head, holding his hand out and smiling softly, “It’s been a pleasure!”

Gehrman nodded, shaking the offered limb. “Likewise.”

/+/+/+/+/

“Well, here we are.” Ozpin tapped the bullhead’s ramp with his cane, smirking. “Once you step on this ramp, you restart your life as a Huntsman.”

“Hunter,” Gehrman corrected.

“Semantics,” Ozpin countered.

The First Hunter grunted in reply. He held out his left hand, “Thank you, for your assistance.”

“It was no trouble,” Ozpin smiled back, shaking his hand. “And if you run into trouble, _any_ kind of trouble, I’m a call away.” Gehrman stayed silent, nodding as he walked up the ramp. “Oh! Before I forget!” Gehrman stopped, suppressing a sigh. “Have you given any thought to Summer and Taiyang’s offer?”

Gehrman clicked his tongue, “Neither of them owe me anything.”

“It’s not about owing anything, my friend.”

The First Hunter huffed, fully entering the aerial vehicle. “Farewell, Ozpin.”

“Farewell, Gehrman,” his fellow man of the Cosmos jovially replied as the ramp began to close. “And good luck.”

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: Beasts of Remnant beware; the First Hunter is on the prowl! Be sure to leave a review. Later. **


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

Preparations

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

The ride—to a mountain village by the name of Slumber—was smooth and uneventful. The job he’d selected stated that the area was seeing an increasing amount of Beowolves in the surrounding woods. None had ventured near the village so far, but they wanted to nip the potential problem in the bud.

Gehrman sighed; if he were lucky, it would be like some of the first Hunts he performed in Yharnam. Just cleaning out fledgling Beast dens while the citizens were blissfully unaware of how much danger they were in. Of course, the Beasts of Yharnam were largely solitary. Grimm, from what he’d read, congregated more often than not.

The bullhead lurched, the pilot sounding off that they were about to arrive. Gehrman rose to his feet, pulling out his Scroll and double checking the bank account Ozpin had set-up for him. He could only assume that he’d been given a decent amount of money—he had no idea how much one-hundred thousand Lien was truly worth Remnant. Before becoming a Hunter, he’d never really handled too much money. And after entering Yharnam (until he was fully entrenched in slavery to It), Master Willem handled all his expenses, and Laurence after that. Of course, by then the people of Yharnam had forgone traditional coin in favor of trading Blood for services.

The pilot spoke once more; they were just about to land and open the ramp. Gehrman stumbled a bit when the vehicle jolted to a stop but kept his footing as he exited the vehicle. Thankfully, the pilot had landed the vehicle away from the setting sun, giving Gehrman a chance to readjust to natural light. He looked to his left, nodding at the sight of a tall, concrete wall, watchtowers post every fifty feet or so. The entrance to the town was a large, solid gate, the word ‘Slumber’ painted on a section of the wall atop it.

Turning away from the entrance, Gehrman walked around the bullhead, stopping as he saw the pilot hop out of the vehicle. “Thank you,” he said.

The pilot jerked. “Woah! Give a guy a heart attack,” he said, clutching his chest. “No problem, though. And you are aware that this place hasn’t been added to the flight paths yet, right? When you’re done, you’re gonna have to either hitchhike or go through the forests.”

Gehrman arched a brow, “Is that a problem?”

The pilot was silent for a moment, before shaking his helmeted head. “Nah, I mean, you’re a Huntsman. You’ll be fine, whatever comes your way.” He gave a short salute, then turned to the bullhead, opening up a panel and observing the inner workings of the vehicle. Gehrman took that as leave, walking towards the gate.

He’d barely walked ten feet before the gate opened—partially—a portly, bald man with dark skin striding out to meet him. “Ho there!” he said, arm outstretched. “Ollie Rivers. I’m on Slumber’s City Council.

Gehrman shook the offered limb. “Greetings. I am Gehrman.” He looked behind him, into the woods. “I understand you have a Grimm problem?”

The man nodded, “Of a sort. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting so many of you to show up so soon.”

Gehrman turned back around, eyes narrowed, “How many?”

“Oh, three other Huntsmen accepted the job. One showed up yesterday, two just this morning, and now you.” Ollie smiled widely, “That’s how you Huntsmen prefer to operate, isn’t it? Groups of four?” Gehrman nodded wordlessly. Four was an ideal number for a Hunt. “They’re boarding at the Eclipse—one of those new motel/bar chains from Vacuo,” Ollie smiled, proud of the illustrious achievement, “They should still be there. I’ll lead the way.” Thus, they went on their way.

Slumber wasn’t as grand as city of Vale—a bustling metropolis that put Yharnam and Castle Cainhurst combined to shame. Nor was it a shoddy, haphazard collection of tinder like the dwellings of Yharnam’s poorer farmers. It was…comfy, for lack of a better term. Squat, brick buildings huddled together in tight circles, a town square in the center of it, surrounded by shops and other accoutrements—the inn immediately catching his attention.

The second they entered; Gehrman immediately homed in on the Huntsmen. It wasn’t hard. Even if you didn’t notice their relaxed but alert postures, or the scars on their bodies, or even the weapons—small firearms, from the look of it—strapped to their bodies. The wide berth the other patrons gave them as they sipped their drinks was a clear indicator of what they were. A berth that seemed to grow wider upon noticing that Gehrman had entered the room, the Huntsmen turning to look at him.

The Huntsmen themselves were an eclectic group. There was a subtle divide between them—two, a man and a woman, of them sitting close together and the third, a man, a few spaces away. The not-quite solitary man had dark skin, his dark hair cut short against his skull, and eyes so yellow that if Gehrman didn’t know any better, he’d worry the man was close to Beasthood. He wore a simple black shirt and pants, but Gehrman could see a number of colorful tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves.

The man and woman looked similar, siblings, most likely, sharing pale skin, green eyes and (Gehrman did his best not to look too shocked) green hair—the…vast range of colors the people of Remnant could naturally achieve was the thing that struck him, above all other things, as _weird_. They even wore similar shirts. The man’s eyes were warm, if guarded. The woman, on the other hand, narrowed her gaze. Then, her lips spread into a smile, whereupon she licked—ah.

Gehrman huffed, recognizing the gleam in the woman’s eyes. Granted, it had been a _fair_ number of years since he’d witnessed it, but it was hard to misplace the lust in her eyes.

Ollie cleared his throat awkwardly, “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” Gehrman nodded, striding for the three Huntsmen.

The dark-skinned man inclined his head. “Was wondering when you’d show up.” He extended his hand, “Rocky.”

“Gehrman,” the First Hunter replied.

“Ooh~” the woman cooed, leaning forward on her arms, “that’s an exotic name.”

“Sandy,” her companion groaned.

“What?”

He scoffed, “Whatever,” and turned his full attention to Gehrman. He gestured to himself, “Lincoln Elm,” and the woman, “my sister Sandra.”

“You,” she winked at Gehrman, “can call me ‘Sandy’.”

The First Hunter resisted the urge to sigh. “What have you discovered of the Grimm stalking the village?”

Sandra pouted, though Rocky nodded. “Straight to business? Alright then.” He pulled out his Scroll, opening it and displaying a map of the area. “I was out most of the day, scouting the surrounding woods.” He pointed to the western forest. “Found a bunch—and I mean a _bunch_—of Beowolf tracks to the west.”

“That,” Lincoln spoke up, “tracks with what Sandy and I have been able to get from the villagers.”

Sandra nodded. “Most of them aren’t too worried at the moment.” She shrugged, “To their credit, they’ve got a top-of-the-line A.G. field.” Sandra then leaned forward, glaring at the map, “Still, if the tracks are all concentrated in one area, that means the Grimm are new to the area. Trying to find themselves a home before they launch any attacks.” She grimaced, “Which means at least one of them is _smart_.”

Gehrman hummed; much like the Beasts of Yharnam, Grimm grew smarter every second they lived. Unlike Beasts, however, Grimm could perform surprisingly competent strategies. Which lead to a chilling thought. “Where are the Anti-Grimm field beacons set-up?” he asked.

Lincoln leaned forward, “Uh…it’s a circular grid about two miles out from the village.” He circled the area on the map.

“Out in the open?” Gehrman asked.

“Buried.”

The First Hunter nodded. Strange devices, the Anti-Grimm beacons. He didn’t completely understand the technology behind it, but from what he could gather, it emitted a special electrical field that didn’t so much harm Grimm as trick them into thinking there wasn’t anything interesting nearby. It didn’t work on the smart ones, but that’s why Huntsmen existed.

“So,” Rocky leaned back, “how are we gonna handle this?”

“The first thing we should do,” Gehrman said, “is decide whether we want to strike now or tomorrow.”

Lincoln cocked a brow, “Didn’t you just come into town?”

“And?”

Sandra sniffed, lips spreading into a flirtatious smile, “You’re certainly eager.”

Gehrman sniffed, “The sooner we kill the Grimm, the sooner we can ease the minds of the people of Slumber.”

“So, I take it you want to strike now?” Lincoln asked.

Gehrman nodded. “Strike swiftly, I say.”

“I’m going to have to disagree,” Rocky stated. “The sun’s setting, and I’d prefer to hunt in the daylight.”

“It’ll give the Grimm a chance to increase their numbers,” Sandra replied.

“It’ll also be easier to pick off any stragglers in daylight,” Rocky countered. “After all, newer Grimm are pretty much all black, and the moon’s been growing dimmer the last few nights.” Gehrman was about to counter that that wouldn’t be an issue, but only the Faunus shared his ability to see in the dark.

“I’m with Rocky on this one,” Lincoln spoke up, rubbing his chin. “Sure, there’ll be more Grimm in the morning, but _all_ of us will be rested enough to deal with it.”

Sandra hummed, before shrugging apologetically at Gehrman. “Sorry handsome, they make compelling arguments.”

The First Hunter languidly waved his hand, “I’m fine. Both are valid options. In truth, waiting until tomorrow _will_ give us more time to devise sound strategies.”

Rocky nodded, “So we go hunting tomorrow?” When they all gave their assent, Rocky continued, “Then we might as well get strategizing.”

“Any idea where the Grimm are holed up?” Gehrman asked, staring intently at map. “A cave?”

“Don’t think so,” Rocky replied.

“You’re assuming they’re old enough to stay in one spot,” Lincoln added.

“We should ask around for the local hotspots,” Sandra said. “But ultimately it won’t matter—we’re going to fight them out in the open sooner or later.”

“Suppose we should talk about weapons then,” Rocky sighed. He raised his arm, catching a waiter’s attention. “Might as well get comfortable.”

The three Huntsmen ordered refills of their alcoholic beverages. Gehrman merely grunted, “Water.”

“Tabs covered; you know?” Rocky chuckled.

“I prefer not to indulge before a Hunt,” Gehrman replied, leaving out the fact alcohol had lost its effect on him back when he first accepted the Blood.

Sandra smirked, “What about af—”

“Stop that,” Gehrman growled.

Sandra leaned back, lips pulled into a wide grin, “Hey now! No need to get all defensive. I’m just sa—”

“First off,” Gehrman cut her off with a low growl, “it will take a lot more than a desperate woman’s flirtations to fluster me.” Sandra’s smile vanished. “Second, I am not interested.” She actually grew thoughtful at that. “And third,” he leaned forward, voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “You are meant to be a professional, a bastion for mankind. Act like it!”

She flushed, face morphing into a light sneer. Their drinks arrived, and Sandra quickly accepted hers, downing it in one gulp and brusquely asking for another.

“I keep telling y—”

“Shut it, Lincoln!” she barked.

“…So. I’m a close range fighter,” Rocky began slowly, awkwardly. “Got a custom war-hammer, Fuji. Its head is the special bit; I can fill it with Dust, and either augment my attacks, or explode it out from the top. Also got an M&K 76 for crowd control.”

“Er…cool,” Lincoln said, eyes darting between his sister and Rocky. “Me and Sandy don’t use custom gear, just the generic SDC stuff. She prefers the O-model spears—the ones that double as rifles,” he added at Rocky and Gehrman’s puzzled stares. “I use daggers and Dust grenades.”

The three then turned to Gehrman—begrudgingly, in Sandra’s case. The First Hunter sat straighter. “My primary weapon is the Burial Blade—a scimitar which can transform into a scythe for greater reach. As a back-up, I have the Threaded Cane—a bladed cane which transforms into a segmented whip.” He waved his hand flippantly, “I also have a number of firearms—from simple pistols,” he shifted his coat, displaying the weapon holstered on his hip, “to a sniper rifle.”

Rocky cocked a brow, looking Gehrman up and down. “You uh…got some kind of storage Semblance?” Gehrman grunted, but said nothing. If, for some reason, he proved unable to form a Semblance, then the Little Ones could provide a decent substitute.

“In any case,” he continued, “I believe that I would better serve using the sniper rifle; our collective close-range capability is through the roof. And there are those stragglers to watch out for.”

The other three contemplated his words. Eventually, Sandra mulishly said, “There _are_ a lot of tall trees out there. At least one of them should make a good sniper’s nest.”

“Then,” Rocky leaned forward, “the three of us would go out, what, five-hundred feet?”

“Three,” Lincoln stated. “Shorter distance to cover in case Gehrman needs help.” He wouldn’t, but Gehrman appreciated the concern.

They conversed more strategy, but in the end all it really amounted to was the Elm siblings sticking close together, Rocky running around with his hammer, and Gehrman offering support fire from a distance. It wouldn’t be the most exciting Hunt Gehrman had participated in, but he’d get the chance to use his new sniper rifle.

When the conversation started to lull, Gehrman rose to his feet. “I shall meet you all back here at seven o’clock tomorrow.”

Rocky cocked a brow, “Heading to bed already?”

The First Hunter shook his head, “Not at the moment. I merely wish to explore the place I’m meant to defend.” In truth, he only wanted to visit one area—a weapon shop. But familiarizing himself with the village’s layout would prove beneficial if the Grimm proved more troublesome than they anticipated.

“Fair enough.” Rocky nodded, “See you later.”

“Goodbye!” Lincoln jovially waved.

Sandra just grunted, swirling her drink.

Gehrman nodded his farewells, exiting the bar.

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman did not find a dedicated weapon shop—or even a Dust shop. He’d been forced to ask, and a kindly old woman pointed him towards the General Store.

It was a fairly modest establishment. The front of the store was stocked with foodstuffs. Appliances lined the walls. And on the wall behind the counter—where a woman with dark hair and pale skin sat next to a young boy with similar features—were some firearms, ammunition, weapons, and Dust, held within a large glass box.

The boy kept his gaze glued on a Scroll, but the woman sat straighter, plastering a smile on her face. “Evening, Stranger,” she said evenly. “Name’s Sarah, how can I help you?” Before Gehrman could reply, she gasped. “Oh! You’re one of those Huntsmen, aren’t you?” Gehrman noted that the boy snapped his head up, staring at Gehrman with wide eyes.

He ignored the child, looking at Sarah and saying, “Yes, I am. My name is Gehrman, and I’m curious as to your store of ammunitions.”

Sarah looked behind her, “Ah, you need supplies?”

“Not at the moment,” Gehrman shook his head. “But after we complete the Hunt I—and the other Huntsmen—may need to restock. However, I would be remiss if my restocking would leave your village low on vital supplies,” he cocked a brow, “Will that be an issue?”

Sarah shrugged, “Shouldn’t be. We’ve got a pretty full stock—local guards don’t really use up too much ammo.” She scratched her chin, “Expecting a truck full of supplies in soon…” she trailed off with a smirk, “Get rid of those Grimm and I can see myself parting with the surplus.”

Gehrman nodded, “I see. Thank you for your time.”

Sarah blinked, “Wait—you don’t want anyth—”

“No,” Gehrman cut her off, turning on his heel and walking towards the exit.

Only for a soft, “Excuse me,” the halt him in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, cocking his brow at the young boy leaning forward on the counter. He gulped, licking his lips before saying, “Are you really a Huntsman, mister?” He eyed Gehrman critically—well, as critically as a child could, “Cause you don’t look like one.”

“Flint!” Sarah harshly whispered.

“What?” Flint shot back with a frown. “He’s so…weird.”

Gehrman scoffed, “Take greater care in disciplining your child,” and exited the store.

And found himself face-to-face with Sandra.

Rolling his eyes and cursing his luck, Gehrman moved to shoulder past the woman.

“Hold on!” she said, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Resisting the urge to slap her hand away, he instead said, “I believe I’ve made my position towards your propositions very clear.”

“Not that!” she spat. She then paused, removing her hand and shaking her head. “Look, can we talk?”

The First Hunter wanted to decline. But…he would have to work with this woman come the morning. Thus, he followed her into a small alley between the buildings.

Sandra turned around, rubbing her arms. “Er…listen…I’m sorry, about earlier.” Gehrman cocked a brow, “It’s just,” she blushed, “look, when you travel for weeks and the only guy around is your brother…well,” she chuckled awkwardly, “you get that itch, y’know?”

“I do not.”

“Ha,” Sandra deadpanned. She shook her head, “Anyway, we, uh, cool?”

Gehrman was silent for a moment. Before honestly replying, “So long as you do not act as such again, I do not foresee any more problems between us.”

Sandra smirked, “You talk really fancy, anyone ever tell you that?”

He grunted. He then asked, “Would Rocky be amenable to your proposition? Or have you sought out anyone else? If this will really affect your performance, either deal with the urge or sit the Hunt out.”

Sandra blushed, “Can you not call it that? Makes me sound like whore,” Gehrman kept silent. “Besides, I’ll be fine—not my first dry spell.” Her blush darkened, “And I, uh, I did, ask Rocky, but he said he’s got a boyfriend in Patch.” She clicked her tongue, “And none of the people around here are particularly impressive, you know?”

In this instance, Gehrman was able to agree with Sandra. Compared to a Hunter ordinary people just…didn’t measure up. Though in his case, one woman stood far above the rest.

A melancholy settled around Gehrman as he remembered Maria. He no longer felt blinding, debilitating grief when he thought of the wonderous woman—he’d worked out all his issues on the Doll. But there was still an ache in his heart when he thought of what might have happened had things—

He cut off that line of thought with a low growl. That part of his life was long dead; he had a new path ahead of him now.

“Something wrong?” Sandra asked

“Just…agreeing with you.”

Sandra grinned, “Yeah…there’s just something about—”

“Don’t,” he said with narrowed eyes.

Sandra stepped back, arms spread wide, though her pleased expression remained. “Alright, alright.” She walked out of the alley, “See you around.”

Gehrman nodded after her, leaving the alley as well. But instead of going back to the inn—which was where Sandra appeared to be heading—he decided to seek out some of the local guards.

They weren’t hard to find—they wore fairly rudimentary armor and wielded a wide array of weaponry. Even shields, he noted with mild distaste.

They were doing patrols—moving up and down the town’s walls. But one did break off from her route to meet with Gehrman when he waved at them.

“What do you need sir?” the woman said as she stopped before him.

Gehrman gestured to the wall, “My fellow Huntsmen reported that the Beasts we’re hunting have been keeping to the west. Has that changed?”

“No sir,” she shook her head, “but if it does, we’ll let you know.”

The First Hunter nodded, making to leave. Only for a loud shout of “Approaching vehicle!” from the wall to catch his attention. “It’s been hit!”

Quick as a flash, Gehrman snapped his fingers. The Helpers appeared by his feet, and he grabbed his Burial Blade, unholstering the pistol at his hip. “Lead the way,” he intoned. The guard beside him did a double take at the sudden appearance of his primary weapon, but still did as told, taking him to the main entrance.

They arrived just as the main gate opened, allowing a large vehicle—a truck, Gehrman recognized—to slowly amble in. The first thing he noticed was the bullet holes dotting the truck. Along with scorch marks and burns. As the truck came to a stop, the driver hastily opened their door, tumbling out and into the doors of a waiting guard. He was covered in welts, bruises, and blood (Gehrman had to stop himself from moving closer to the body—it’d been so long since he’s smelled _fresh blood_). But amid all that, there was not a claw mark or bite wound to be seen.

Gehrman cocked a brow at the guard he travelled with. “You have problems with bandits?”

The guard nodded hesitantly. “They’ve been harassing travelers for the past few weeks. But that was always just showing up in the dead of night and steal supplies. Not,” she shuddered, “this.”

The First Hunter grunted, “Well, with any luck, me and the other Huntsmen will be able to stop them during our Hunt.”

“If you’re able,” the guard replied, “but don’t go out of your way. The Grimm are the more pressing issue.” Gehrman had to agree. “Have anymore questions? Cause while I’d love to answer them…” she trailed off, looking at her fellow guards. Gehrman wordlessly waved her off, heading on his own way.

By the time he returned to the inn, he noticed that sun was just barely peeking above the horizon. He lifted his eyes, smirking at the broken moon hanging overhead—even now, the sight brought him such joy.

He walked over to the front desk, accepted his room key, and went upstairs. Upon entering, he snapped his fingers, summoning the Little Ones. They appeared with eager groans, depositing his weaponry and nightclothes on the bed. He changed and performed a cursory inspection of his weapons before settling into a chair, drifting off to sleep.

/+/+/+/+/

A series of knocks interrupted Gehrman’s preparations. “Enter,” he said, not looking away from his disassembled sniper rifle as he placed it—along with a shotgun and various ammunition and Dust—in a black bag.

The door opened. “Morning.” Gehrman turned upon recognizing the voice. He saw Rocky, dressed for battle, weapon strapped to his back and firearm holstered across his chest. The man jerked his head, “You ready?”

The First Hunter nodded, his lips spreading into a cold grin as he closed the bag.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: The details of how Huntsmen operate is…a little sparse. Like, we see how Ruby et al ‘handle’ things season 4 onwards, but Remnant’s on the verge of the Apocalypse by then, that can’t be standard operating procedure. Also, there has to be some technological way to keep Grimm away, otherwise places like the Xiao-Long/Rose household simply cannot exist. Whatever. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

Prey

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

“Comfortable up there?” Lincoln shouted from the forest floor.

Gehrman looked away from the sniper rifle, subconsciously readjusting the straps of the bag attached to his back, staring down at his comrades below. “Comfort is not my main concern.” The young man’s face fell, prompting an eye roll. “I shall be fine. Worry about yourselves.”

“You heard the man,” Rocky chuckled, clapping Lincoln on the back. He looked up to Gehrman, “Got a hand on the flare gun?”

Gehrman spared a glance at the item in question; a curious firearm—gifted to him by Rocky—which was only able to fit a single flare that was able to travel hundreds of feet in the air. Rocky had given him two types of flares—red for immediate danger, and green to signify that all was well. He looked back down, nodding.

“Alright. Now then,” Rocky clapped his hands together, grinning widely, “let’s get paid!”

“Stay safe handsome!” Sandra said with a wink as she, her brother, and Rocky jogged away. Gehrman rolled his eyes, but her words lacked the desperation they had the previous day, so he kept quiet.

He returned his attention to the sniper rifle. This would be the first time he actually killed something with the weapon. To be certain, he’d proven exemplary with it while training at Beacon. But Beasts were not simple targets—they wouldn’t go down in a single hit.

He shook his head free of such thoughts—he had a duty to uphold, a mission to accomplish. Repositioning himself so he lay flush against his chosen branch, he pressed his face against the sniper rifle, staring down the sight.

It didn’t take him long to find his current companions. They had entered a clearing—chosen because it had the least number of trees that obstructed Gehrman’s view. Rocky, Lincoln and Sandra stood in the center. They were conversing, when all of the sudden Rocky and Sandra pressed their index fingers against their noses. The two then laughed at Lincoln, who ran his hands through his hair and looked up at the sky. The green-haired man then shouldered past his sister, unsheathing his daggers and Sandra transformed her spear into a rifle, and Rocky poured some Dust—Gehrman couldn’t determine the color—into his hammer—Fuji, Gehrman recalled.

Lincoln took a deep breath, holding his daggers loosely as he closed his eyes and stared at the ground, Rocky and Sandra standing beside him. Ah, Gehrman had read about this. An advanced Hunting technique. A Huntsman dwelled on a particularly painful memory in order to dredge up negative emotions to attract Grimm.

An easy idea in theory. In practice, one had to take care not to let themselves grow overwhelmed by the memories. Gehrman was not…optimistic, as to his chances of successfully performing the technique.

Lincoln, however, appeared to be a master, only the slightest twitch of his brow betraying his calm.

_ARWOOOOOO_

Gehrman tensed as a howl tore through the woods. Followed by dozens more. Through his scope, he saw his comrades fall into battle-ready stances, their bodies flashing different colors for a brief moment.

The First Hunter clicked his tongue—Aura. He’d almost forgotten.

He tensed, feeling a pull in his core. He took several deep breaths, shifting as his body was covered in a protective layer of energy.

He stared at his allies through his scope, shifting focus between them every few seconds. Then, Lincoln tensed, shouting something lost in the wind and pointing north. Gehrman adjusted his aim, grunting as a dozen Beowolves burst into the clearing. Aiming for the pack leader’s chest, he inhaled, steadied his aim, and fired.

The rifle pushed on his shoulder, but Gehrman was able to see the Beast crash into the ground, body already dissolving into mist.

Gehrman took a moment to frown—so the Grimm _would_ go down in one hit.

Shaking his head free of the thought, the First Hunter took aim once more, tearing through the chest of another Grimm. And another. And another. Nine more Beasts fell to him before he was forced to pull back to replace his weapon’s magazine.

When he looked back through his scope, the Hunt had truly begun.

Rocky and Lincoln zipped across the field like lightning, the former crushing Grimm with one swing of his mighty hammer, the latter all but decapitating those unlucky enough to cross his path.

Sandra stayed in her position, ending Grimm with well-placed headshots. If one was lucky enough to get close, she’d twirl her rifle in her hands, transforming it into a spear and either killed the Grimm or threw it into its kin; whereupon Lincoln would set them ablaze with a well-timed grenade.

And all the while, Gehrman dispatched of the Beasts lingering on the fringes of the clearing, steadily reducing the pack. Not the most exciting Hunt he’d taken part in, but it was looking to be a successful one all the same.

_GRRAAAAHH_

Gehrman paused, turning away from the carnage to look behind him. He cocked a brow as two Grimm, far larger and bulkier than a Beowolf, bound into view. Ursa, he realized. He grunted—either they were new arrivals, or someone had lied when submitting the mission. “Oh, it’s no matter,” he muttered, sitting up and holding his sniper rifle in one hand, grabbing his Burial Blade in the other. One of the Ursa burst past the other, roaring as it reared onto its hindlegs and slammed into the tree.

With a low huff, Gehrman jumped down, blade held high. The Beast looked up, just in time for the Burial Blade to sink into its skull. And continue on to bisect the Grimm.

Gehrman managed not to stumble as he fell further than he expected, the Ursa falling in two halves before him. Keeping an eye on the other Grimm, which was keeping its distance, Gehrman brought his blade to eye level. Unlike when he tested it against Aura, there was no loss in its shine.

He eyed the Beast before him through its companion smoking remains. It stood on its hindlegs, roaring before slamming back to the ground.

The First Hunter grunted, placing his Sniper Rifle against the tree and placing the Burial Blade back on his hip, grabbing the Threaded Cane in its place. He inspected the weapon, flicking his wrist to change it into its whip form, and back to a cane.

The Ursa roared, shaking the air, and charged. Gehrman ran to meet it.

The Beast dropped its head, swinging it upwards in a wide arc, it’s bone-white mask gleaming in the morning sun. The First Hunter sidestepped the blow, bringing up the Threaded Cane and lunging for its neck.

From what Gehrman had read, Usra were one of the stronger Grimm species, their hides being particularly thick. Alas, such protection did not prevent the Threaded Cane from piercing the Beast’s neck, cutting through its facsimile flesh and bursting out the other side.

The Ursa’s eyes, glowing yellow and full of hate, dimmed as it fell limp to the forest floor. The First Hunter snorted derisively, wrenching his weapon free—and tearing off the things jaw in the process. And not even a speck of blood to make up for it.

A bright green light shone in the sky. Gehrman looked up, seeing a green flare travel in the air. After taking a cursory look at his surroundings, Gehrman fired his own green flare in response, and returned to his sniper rifle, taking off his bag, disassembling the rifle and putting it in there.

His compatriots came into view moments later.

Rocky whistled, smirking down at the dissolving corpses, “Was wondering why you stopped shooting.”

Lincoln bent down near the bisected Beast. He grimaced, “That’s a very…clean cut.”

“All the Grimm have been cleared?” Gehrman asked.

“So far,” Sandra replied, kicking the (largely) intact Ursa’s corpse, and taking a picture of it with her Scroll (a macabre action, but he’d committed worse), “You saw that they came in from the north?” He nodded. “Thinking we should head on up there and see if there’re any older Grimm that didn’t fall for out trap.”

“A sound plan,” Gehrman replied, closing the bag. “Let’s be off.”

Rocky grunted, “Let’s go with a diamond formation. Lincoln,” the green-haired man nodded, “take point. I’ll bring up the rear.”

“I call left!” Sandra chirped, moving beside her brother, Gehrman wordlessly stepping beside her. Once Rocky took up his position, the four sped off.

Alas, any hopes Gehrman had of a quite journey were dashed when Lincoln said, “You’re a crack shot with that rifle, anyone ever tell you that?”

The First Hunter sniffed, “I endeavor to maintain mastery of all types of weaponry I may come across. Sniper rifles are no exception.”

Rocky snickered, “You always talk like that?” At Gehrman’s questioning grunt, he elaborated, “Like you’re trying to reach some sort of character minimum?”

Gehrman huffed, “It is how I naturally speak.”

“I think it’s neat.” The First Hunter shot Sandra a look. “Not like that!” she rolled her eyes. “It’s a statement. How you make your mark on the world.”

Gehrman considered her words. He shrugged, “I do not act as I do because I wish to create some sort of image. It is part of who I am. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Can’t deny you cut an impressive figure, though,” Lincoln said over his shoulder. He could not, Gehrman agreed.

Rocky clicked his tongue, “Gotta say, that cape really—hold up,” he cut himself off, voice turning to steel. The four of them came to an abrupt halt. “Thought I saw something, six o’clock”

Sandra stepped closer to Lincoln, holding up her rifle and staring down it’s sight behind them. Gehrman unholstered one of his pistols, holding it in both hands and staring opposite her. “Grimm?” he asked.

“Lincoln—”

“I’m on it,” the man said, cutting off his sister and taking a deep breath. Gehrman spared a glance, noting that he’d closed his eyes, head twitching lightly. This continued for another moment. Then Lincoln opened his eyes, face settling into a frown. “It was people.”

“Was?” Rocky queried.

“They’re running away—west. Probably those bandits we’ve been hearing about. Cowards,” he spat.

“Beg your pardon,” Gehrman said, lowering his pistol, “But would one of you be so kind as to inform me what just happened.”

The three Huntsmen blinked, before Rocky snapped his fingers, “Right! You were in the tree!”

“It’s my Semblance,” Lincoln said. “I can sense vibrations in the ground.”

Gehrman hummed, “That sounds…useful.”

The man clicked his tongue, “Would be better if it came with a filter, and I could use it without having to stand still” He shook his head, “Anyway, whoever was nearby is long gone now. For that matter,” he tilted his head, “I couldn’t sense any Grimm. You guys want to keep searching?”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” the First Hunter quickly replied.

“I’m with him,” Rocky added.

“Back into formation, boys,” Sandra said, lowering her weapon. And they continued on.

/+/+/+/+/

In the end, after several hours of searching, they found no more Grimm. Nor any evidence that they were on the prowl. Thus, they returned to Slumber. It felt…odd, not bringing back a corpse as proof of a successful Hunt. Oh, he knew that the nature of the Grimm made such a feat nigh impossible, but still, odd.

Upon entering the village, they were met with Ollie Rivers, some other people who seemed important—as important as elected officials of a small settlement could be, at any rate—and various other citizens.

Ollie smiled widely, taking Rocky’s hand (the man having the fortune of leading them into town) and shaking it enthusiastically. “Thank you, all of you,” he shared his smile with the rest of them, “for your hard work.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” Gehrman muttered quietly beneath his breath. Not quite quiet enough, though, given Lincoln’s short snort.

Sanda cleared her throat, “The Grimm have been dealt with. Your people should be safe.” She then pulled out her Scroll, turning it towards the councilman and—ah! That’s why she took the pictures. Good to know. Of course, that’s putting a lot of trust in a technology that, from what Gehrman had read, could be forged. In the end, he’d have preferred to bring back a corpse as irrevocable proof.

Ollie’s smile dimmed, “Until they inevitably come back.” He shook his head, “Hopefully by then we will have set our roots a fair bit.” He stepped back, spreading his hands, “Your money shall be wired to your accounts. Might I recommend celebrating at the Eclipse?”

“Sounds good to me!” Rocky grinned. A cheer went up around them, the crowd around them making their way for the inn.

Gehrman scoffed, “Quite the excitable rabble.”

“Not like we did all the work,” Lincoln grumbled good-naturedly.

“Speaking of,” Sandra smirked, “we worked pretty well out there.”

“I’m going to have to stop you right there,” Rocky held a hand up. “I don’t do permanent teams. Didn’t like it at Shade, don’t like it now.”

Sandra pouted, turning a hopeful eye towards Gehrman. The Hunter grunted, “I do agree that we worked well together.” He nodded at his temporary comrades, “Don’t get your hopes up. I prefer to travel place-to-place by foot.”

Sandra, Lincoln, and even Rocky pulled faces. The former spoke before the others, “Yeah, you might be nice to look at, but not ‘trek for miles’ nice.”

“Damn man,” Rocky looked Gehrman up and down, “what do you eat?”

Gehrman shrugged, “Lot’s of things.” He sobered slightly, “But that is not to say that I bore of your presences. In the short time we’ve been together, I can see that you are all worthy of the responsibility entrusted to you as Huntsmen.” He bowed, “It was an honor to fight by your side,” he lifted his head with a smirk, “rather, a few hundred feet away.”

Sandra sucked in a breath, “God…are you sure—”

Quick as a flash, Gehrman returned to a standing position, face set in a neutral frown. “My position towards your advancements has not changed, Sandra.”

The woman shrugged, “Eh, can’t blame a woman for trying.” She sent them a jaunty salute, “I shall see you all at the bar.”

Lincoln sighed, “Guess that means I’m the one that’s gonna look up the next transport out of here.”

“I was told this town is not yet on any bullhead routes,” Gehrman supplied.

Lincoln groaned, “Of course it’s not,” and went to find some more information, leaving him and Rocky behind.

The dark-skinned man crossed his arms, “What you got planned?”

The First Hunter shrugged, “Eat something. Ensure my weapons are in optimal conditions. You?”

“Plan on doing a couple more jobs—other villages like this. Then head on over to Patch.”

“Ah yes,” Gehrman nodded, “Sandra told me you have a lover on the island.”

Rocky blushed, scratching his cheek, “Little more than lovers, I think. Hope, really,” he whispered.

Ignoring the stab in his own heart, Gehrman reached over and clapped the man’s shoulder. “Cherish them,” he said. Rocky blinked, but nonetheless nodded solemnly, and went on his way.

Shaking off the last of his melancholy, Gehrman decided to go to the inn as well. He wouldn’t stay for the jubilations, but he would nonetheless show his face to the grateful citizens of Slumber.

That changed, however, when he saw some guards post something on a board in the town square.

He walked up to them, asking, “What’s going on?”

One of the guards turned, and he recognized the woman he’d met the other day. She recognized him as well, “Ah, it’s you.” She stepped back, allowing him to see what she and her colleague had posted. Two Wanted posters, as it was.

Gehrman grunted, “I see the driver was able to give a description of the bandits.” He peered closer at the pictures. Two men, opposites in every way. One appeared small, devoid of hair and with dark skin and dark eyes. The other was large, with a full head of hair and a messy beard, skin almost sickly pale and eyes as blue as a clear sky. Underneath the pictures was general information including their names—Camren Heron and Umbra Dustin, respectively—their bounties, physical attributes and identifiers, a list of crimes, and—

Gehrman froze as he read the last bit of information under Umbra’s name. “Atlas Academy…” he repeated.

The guard clicked her tongue. “Yeah. Damn shame, when a Huntsman goes bad.”

“…Indeed,” the First Hunter growled.

/+/+/+/+/

Umbra exhaled audibly, “Didn’t think we’d run into any Huntsmen out here.”

Camren snorted, stoking their meagre fire, “To be far, who the hell else would have sent up green-colored flares.” Umbra chortled, nodding. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious. Hell, it was standard Atlesian operating procedure. Course, he hadn’t been a part of Atlas for a good while now.

“Still,” Camren looked up with a smirk, “pretty good haul.”

Umbra reciprocated the gesture, “Damn straight.” He looked down at his chest, where various dust grenades were strapped to a bandolier. “Pretty impressive for some shitstain town in the middle of nowhere.”

Camren guffawed, lifting his head up to the sky.

_BANG_

Umbra jumped, unsheathing the swords strapped to his back. “The fuck?! Camren, you hear—”

_Thud_

Umbra whirled around, Aura activating and cursing up a storm as Camren’s lifeless body slumped over, revealing the bullethole directly over his heart. “Fuck!” Umbra shouted.

He whirled around, blades pointing forward. “Show yourself you cowardly fuck!” All he heard in response was the crackling of the fire.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he panted, eyes darting around the darkened woods. Could he make a run for it? Maybe, but if he ran, he’d probably get a bullet in the back, which wouldn’t kill him, but would knock him down. Then he’d be good as dead. He didn’t want to stay and fight, either—he never was the best at direct combat.

He sucked in a breath; the grenades! Sheathing one of his blades, he grabbed one of the grenades strapped to his chest, pulling the pin but not yet priming it. Either he hit whatever fuck decided to fuck with him, or he started a forest fire. Either way, he was getting out of this alive.

_Crunch_, a branch broke behind him.

Quick as a flash, Umbra whirled around, priming and throwing the grenade with all his might. His brain caught up with him after the grenade left his hands, just in time to see some tall bastard in weird clothes catch the explosive. Umbra shivered when their eyes met—they were hard and lifeless, like stone.

And then the grenade blew up, engulfing the bastard in fire, the sharp _crack_ of Aura breaking filling the air before the roar of flames overtook it.

Umbra stared in disbelief. Then, he started laughed. “Ha, ha, hahahaha! You stupid bastard! What the fuck was your plan!” So elated, he was, that he almost didn’t notice a shape move out of the fire. Almost.

Umbra had just enough to gasp before something hot—so hot he could feel it through his Aura—clamped around his neck, lifting him in the air and slamming him against a tree.

The blow rattled him, making him see spots. Not that that stopped the smell of burning flesh from assaulting his nostrils—he might have thrown up were his throat not obstructed.

When his vision was restored, he threw up anyway.

The face—if you could still call it that—of that…thing…was a melted mass of black and red goo, flowing down a bone-white skull and onto burning clothes. But that wasn’t the worst part—gods, if only that was the worst part. As the goo flowed down…flesh started to stitch together on the skull. First the muscle, and then the skin. The eyes—rather, the space were eyes _should_ have been—started to bubble, more goo flowing down the reconstructing face two gray eyes stared dispassionately at him.

And then, after this…thing’s lips reformed, it smiled.

“How _fascinating_,” it hissed, leaning closer to Umbra, who started to cry. “I’m applying enough pressure to crush a stone to powder, and your Aura still holds.”

“P-Please,” Umbra managed to choke out through his fear and bile, “d-don’t k-k-k—”

The monster laughed then, laughed a terrible mockery of a laugh. “_You_, one who turned his back—worse, his blade—on the very people he swore to protect, ask for _mercy_?” It laughed once more. “Very well.”

Like a fool, Umbra allowed hope to well up in his chest.

And then the pressure on his throat increased.

Umbra began to thrash, futilely attempting to escape from this nightmare.

The last thing he heard, the last thing he felt, was his Aura breaking.

/+/+/+/+/

Sandra moaned lightly, breathing in that fresh night air as she stretched her arms. “Man…that was some good eats.” To her left, Lincoln mumbled something. She scoffed, elbowing her brother. “Not every town’s going to have good lamb, Lincoln.”

“Nonsense,” he spat playfully, before falling into a comfortable silence. They’d decided to walk around after eating, burn off a few calories.

Sandra was never one for…small towns, but it always felt good to watch people walk around in high spirits after a Grimm extermination.

If only Gehrman shared her attraction—then it would have been a _really_ good day.

“Injured man approaching!” Sandra jumped at the sudden voice. “He’s carrying a lot of stuff!” She looked up to see a guard pointing outside the town.

Lincoln sucked in a breath, “Another bandit attack?” Sandra hoped not—bandits were such a chore to deal with. Give her a pack of Grimm any day.

She and Lincoln quickly made their way to the main gate, easily shoving their way (well, she did most of the shoving) to the front. Imagine her surprise when it was Gehrman’s bloody form that walked through the gates, balancing several metal trunks in his arms.

Lincoln tugged her sleeve. “Did you know he went out to deal with the bandits?” She shook her head.

“Excuse me, excuse me!” Sandra looked over her shoulder to see Ollie Rivers push his way forward. “Gehrman!” the man shouted. “I—what happened?”

“I took care of your bandit problem,” he said, carefully depositing the metal cases to the ground. “I regret to inform you that they helped themselves to some of your foodstuffs. And one grenade.” The dam burst after then, several people clamoring forward for the cases.

Sandra and Lincoln ignored that in favor of walking towards Gehrman. The tall man turned to face them, making to bow.

“Wait!” Lincoln shouted, shooting forward. “Don’t make any sudden movements! We need to get you checked out!”

The bloody Huntsman blinked languidly. “What are you—oh! No, this isn’t my blood.”

A pit formed in Sandra’s stomach. A quick look at her brother revealed that he was feeling the same. Gehrman was obviously in severe shock—how else could he be so calm.

“What the fuck?!”

Sandra whirled around at the declaration, just in time to see several people vomit.

Now, a much different pit settled in Sandra’s stomach.

Slowly, she inched her way towards the box. The terrible stench assaulting her senses told her what awaited her, but she still had to see it.

And lo, there were two heads staring blankly up at her, blood pooling at the bottom of the metal case.

Sandra managed to keep her dinner down. Lincoln wasn’t so lucky.

Slowly, she turned around to Gehrman. She wasn’t entirely certain what she was expecting to see, but she was horrified to see that he was…exasperated.

Ollie Rivers—one of the first people to throw up—recovered, paling as he looked at Gehrman. “W-W-W-W-Wha—” he stammered.

Gehrman rolled his eyes, “I took care of your bandit problem.”

“You _killed_ them!” the councilman gasped.

“Of course I did. It was the only solution.”

Now, Sandra found it in herself to speak, her mind equal parts terrified, disbelieving, and angry. “That’s a lie!” she stated. She had to resist the urge to flinch when his stony gaze flicked over to her. “You didn’t have to kill them!”

Gehrman’s face changed, then. Morphed into…disappointment? He sighed, “Naïve child,” he spat. He then turned on his heel, cloak whirling and splattering bits of dried blood around him “Ensure that their collective bounties are placed in my bank account,” he said without looking back, “I think we can all agree that I shouldn’t have to come back here.”

And with that, he vanished into the night.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: Yeah, Gehrman was never going to be a normal Huntsman. Just…never an option. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

Fabrications

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman easily dodged the swing of the axe sent his way, shooting his left arm forward and grabbing his prey by her neck. She gasped, eyes bulging out as she swung her axe with renewed fervor—alas, it bounced off his Aura-clad arm, after which he was able to wrench it from her grasp.

The woman—Jade Masters, an ex-Huntswoman that trained at Haven Academy—grit her teeth in response, closing her eyes as well. After which, Gehrman felt his hand heat up at an incredibly fast rate. He pulled the woman closer, startling her, and saw that her skin—although dusky—was remarkably red. And steaming in some places.

Gehrman grunted, “So, Aura can’t block heat—could the same be said for the cold?” he mused. He returned his attention to Jade, noting that she’d given up using her Semblance in favor of feebly clawing at his arm. He applied a little extra pressure to her neck, bringing a permanent halt to that.

He dropped the corpse, snapping his fingers and summoning the Helpers. “You know the drill,” he said, turning around to search the woman’s camp. He paused, looking over his shoulder with a glare, “And remember to leave the eyes intact.” The little golems groaned sibilantly, bowing their heads before beginning their task.

Facing forward once more, Gehrman surveyed the ruined campsite before him. Jade’s camp was in remarkable disarray from their short ‘fight’. He’d been unable to sneak up on her, as she was a Faunus (though her only animal attribute were webbed toes akin to a frog, according to her bounty). That seemed to be a regular occurrence when he Hunted Faunus; their senses were so sharp—perhaps even sharper than his own—that any attempt to catch them off guard usually ended in failure.

But perhaps he could use that to his advantage. Some Beasts had learned to roar at higher pitches—pitches that ordinary Yharnamites weren’t nearly as affected by—so as to incapacitate Hunters. A similar strategy might come in handy the next time he faced a Faunus.

_Ooohoohhooohoooo_

Gehrman looked down at the noise, grunting when the Helpers deposited Jade’s head at his feet. He filed his thoughts away for later—he had a bounty to collect.

/+/+/+/+/

Ozpin sighed deeply, leaning back against his chair and pinching his nose. “In hindsight,” he grumbled to himself, glaring at the stacks of paper before him, “I should have abolished taxes during my tenure as King of Vale.” He scoffed, “What am I saying? That’d just plunge the world into greater chaos…but I wouldn’t have to deal with all this…” he trailed off with a chuckle, rolling his shoulders and getting back into the thick of it.

At least, that was the plan.

At that moment, Glynda burst into his office.

The Headmaster jerked back, brow furrowing at the distressed frown on his second-in-command’s face. “Glynda,” he asked, “what’s the matter?”

“H-Headmaster,” she stammered (which just compounded his alarm), “have you watched the news lately? Or read any…urgent articles?”

He hadn’t—he normally didn’t during tax season. Forcing his voice to remain even, he replied, “No. Why?”

Glynda just licked her lips, quickly striding forward and pulling out her Scroll. She tapped on it a few times, turning it towards him.

His heart skipped a beat at the title of the article Glynda pulled up, blood running cold as he read it:

‘Terror Across Vale: A New Kind of Huntsman?

Perhaps you’ve heard the rumors circulating the continent of Sanus? Tales of bloody bodies being left outside the gates of isolated settlements. Some new, terrible Grimm that delights in tearing its victim’s limb from limb. Well, like all rumors, there are nuggets of truth interwoven within the fantastical tales.

The truth is, yes, there is something tearing people apart and leaving grisly remains throughout Vale’s wilderness. However, this is not the work of some monstrous new Grimm stalking the night. No, these macabre acts are being perpetrated by a Huntsman. A terrifying, butcher of one, but a Huntsman all the same. A Huntsman that doesn’t hunt Grimm. No, he hunts people, Human and Faunus alike.

For the last month, settlements new and old across the northeastern portion of Sanus have lived in fear of being visited by this mad Huntsman. It’s said that he comes in the dead of night, drenched in blood and carrying the head of his hapless victims in a bloody, pungent sack.

Now, some of you may be wondering why this man hasn’t been arrested—or worse—by the authorities. In truth, it’s because this man’s barbarism exists in a very gray legal zone. See, all the people that he’s killed are wanted criminals. The heads that he carries, we’ve been told, are used as identification for bounties. Is this level of violence simply one man’s way of seeing justice met? Or a loophole a sick mind has found to fulfill twisted fantasies? Only the man himself could say, and he’s, surprisingly, been very hard to find.

We know from interviewing the citizens of Slumber, the first town where he ‘debuted’, as it were, that he’s a tall human whose name is Gehrman—no surname. Unfortunately, no one’s been able to recall his exact features, as the last anyone saw of him, he was covered head-to-toe in the blood of the bandits Cameron Heron and Umbra Dustin, thus obscuring him. He did perform a standard Grimm extermination job with three other Huntsmen, but they’ve declined interviews.

All that we do know of Gehrman is that he is, in fact, an official sanctioned Huntsman—and we only know that because his records are sealed in accordance to the Calavera Accords (which, for the uninformed, state that a Huntsman’s personal records cannot be accessed by anyone not a member of a Kingdom’s government, below a grade silver Huntsman, or for publishing in the media without the Huntsman in question’s permission).’

Ozpin stopped reading at that point, dropping his head in his hands. Without looking up, he asked Glynda, “Have the other Headmasters heard of this?” She made to reply, only for his Scroll to start ringing—a quick look revealed that the caller was Leonardo. Then, his computer lit up, revealing that Celia wanted to host a video conference. His Scroll’s ringing grew louder, Theodore’s name appearing on the screen.

“…Never mind.”

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman found himself grateful that he’d already developed such a fearsome reputation. Made bartering so much easier.

“T-That’ll be four-h-hundred and s-sixty Lien,” the shopkeeper stuttered from behind her counter.

The First Hunter cocked a brow, “I was under the impression that your chain was offering a ten percent discount on bulk shotgun shell purchases.”

“O-Oh! Well, you see, that deal actually ended a few days…” she trailed off, sweat pouring down her face, “…You know what, my mistake,” she squeaked. Gehrman nodded, paying the reduced price.

He exited the store, turning away from the setting sun anpulling out his Scroll, accessing the current bounties put in place by the Sanus bureaucracy. There were some reports of banditry between the town he currently resided—Burrowton—and the city of Vale. However, none of the identified men and women were ex-Huntsmen.

He scrolled past the reports with a soft hum, casting his net wider. Perhaps he should travel to the western end of the continent—Vacuo, it was called? Or visit one of the surrounding islands? Piracy had largely been curbed since the Great War near a century prior, but it was still a problem, from what he could tell. The First Hunter chuckled; he’d never killed a pirate before. Might be fun.

Suddenly, that dull, coppery scent wafted into his nostrils. Blood. And it was getting closer. He looked over his shoulder, just in time to see a small shape dart behind a building. Sighing, he put away his Scroll and made his way to the main gate. This had happened a few times, children wanting to gawk at the man their parents whispered about. The Butcher of Vale. the media had taken to calling him. What a ridiculous moniker; as if he was some inelegant slob. The meagre evening crowds parted before him quickly, but still his stalker persisted, getting closer. If they kept it up, they may do something really stupid, like follow him out of town.

Gehrman spun on his heel, quickly spying his lurker dart around a corner. With a huff, he walked towards them. As he neared the mystery person, he was able to determine that that blood he smelt was a little old. Dried, whatever wound—wounds, he further determined—it oozed out of starting to scab over.

He rounded the corner, coming face-to-face with a red-haired adolescent boy, his blue eyes wide with alarm. He gulped, “Y-You’re really him. T-The Butcher.”

Gehrman scowled lightly. Pushing down his ire, he said, “Stop following me.”

The boy gulped, straightening his spine in an effort to appear larger. “Y-You kill people, right?”

Gehrman rolled his eyes, “Goodbye.”

“W-Wait!” the boy shouted, only to flinch, fearfully looking around. The lack of people around them must’ve emboldened him, because he whispered, “C-Can we talk?”

“If you have something to say to me, say it,” Gehrman intoned.

The boy flinched once more, eyes darting around nervously. He licked his lips, “I…I need you to kill someone.”

“Goodbye,” Gehrman repeated, turning around and heading for the village’s main gate.

“Please!” the boy pleaded.

“Seek out the local authorities for a solution your issue,” Gehrman replied.

“I can’t,” the boy pleaded.

The First Hunter smirked grimly, “Then solve it yourself.”

“I _can’t_!” the boy cried, reaching out and grabbing Gehrman’s sleeve. He realized his error soon enough, hastily releasing the clothing. “I mean…my dad _is_ the local authorities.”

Gehrman’s shoulders slumped. “Boy,” he said sternly, “forgive me, for I appear to have mislead you. I don’t care about—”

“He beats us,” the boy blurted out. “Has for a while, and no one’ll do anything about it cause he’s the mayor. And there’s a reelection coming up and he’s not doing so well, and he’s been drinking more and…” the boy continued laying out his father’s sins.

The First Hunter suppressed a sigh; this was not how he envisioned this conversation going. Time to put a stop to it. “Boy,” he said, causing the youth in question to flinch, staring up at him with hopeful eyes. “I am not killing your father.”

At once, the boy’s foolish hopes died, face falling into a frown, “W-Why not? You’re the Butcher.”

Ignoring the stupid sobriquet, Gehrman considered the question, deciding to answer honestly. “I’ve yet to hear a reason why I should.”

The boy jerked back, stunned, “B-But I just told you—”

“You’ve certainly given me a list of reasons why _you_ want him dead.” To be fair, child abuse was a sickening crime. However, Gehrman was most certainly _not_ qualified to mete out that particular brand of justice. Interfering with domestic affairs had never been in the job description.

The boy grit his teeth, “Why should that matter? You’re a killer! A psycho! I’m giving you a free-pass to be crazy and you—ack!” the boy gagged as Gehrman grabbed him by his throat, shoving him against a wall.

With a deep, suffering sigh, the First Hunter leaned forward, whispering into the boy’s ear. “First of all,” he said above the pathetic whimpers, “if you wish to negotiate anything, don’t insult the other party. Second,” he pulled back, glaring into the child’s watery eyes, “I only kill those whose existence personally aggravates me. Your father, for all his impressive faults, has not done so. You, on the other hand…” he trailed off, the boy paling rapidly.

Gehrman released him with a dismissive grunt, “Leave.” The boy shot off like a bullet, not looking back. Clicking his tongue, the First Hunter turned on his heel, leaving Burrowton behind.

/+/+/+/+/

“He needs to be brought to justice!”

“Has he actually done anything illegal?”

“You approve?”

“All I’m saying is there’s a difference between what is illegal and wrong.”

“At the very least, we need to collect him.”

“Ha, sure you don’t want to rethink that sentence?”

“ENOUGH!” Ozpin roared above the din of his colleagues. They reeled back in their screens, eyes widening. He lightly glared at each of them in turn, huffing through his nose. “You’ve been yelling over each other for the past two nights, and, surprise, surprise, we haven’t gotten anywhere.”

“Oh? Does the mighty Ozpin see a solution we’re missing?” Celia sneered.

The immortal man smirked, lifting his Scroll into view, “I have his number.”

Theodore blinked, “You…have his number.”

“Yes.” Ozpin removed his glasses, cleaning them, “And so do all of you, if you’d remembered that you could use your inherent connections as Headmasters to access his file and look it up yourselves.” His three peers all looked away, blushes on their chastened faces. “However, given that I’m the only one that’s established a rapport with him, I believe it would be best if I’m the one that contacts him, no?”

Leonardo frowned, “And why haven’t you brought this up before?”

Ozpin shrugged, “I wanted to see if any of you would have remembered that little fact.” He grinned, “Sorry to say you all failed.”

“We’re Headmasters, not students,” Theodore griped.

“Never too young to learn, my friend,” Ozpin countered with a cheeky grin. Theodore grumbled some more and exited the conference. Leonardo bid a quick farewell, and he too left. Leaving only Celia, a contemplative look on her face. Ozpin grunted, “What is it?”

The Headmistress of Atlas Academy pursed her lips, “…I feel that I must offer you a warning.” Ozpin straightened in his seat, narrowing his eyes. “It’s James.”

Ozpins’s heart clenched in his chest; had they been wrong? Swallowing his initial panic, he asked, “What about your young successor?”

“After informing him of the ‘special’ aspects of our job,” she said, “James has been…eager to please.” She clicked her tongue, “He’s still smarting over the fact that Gehrman was never officially interrogated, and this latest…development has him chomping at the bit.”

“Do you think he’ll go above and beyond his duties?” Ozpin asked.

“If we don’t get this mess sorted out, he might have to be ordered to.”

Ozpin grunted, “Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this.” Celia nodded, and Ozpin ended the conferance. As the computer screen died, Ozpin allowed himself a short scoff. ‘Get to the bottom of this’. As if it were so simple.

He glanced at the clock. Three-thirty in the afternoon. Gehrman should be up and about. And Glynda wouldn’t bother him for anything for another couple hours, at least. Nodding, he dialed the number, starting a video call.

It rang three times before Gehrman picked up. Ozpin tried not to grimace as the man’s bloody face came into view. “What is it?” he asked gruffly.

“Do you have any idea why I’ve called you?”

“I presume it has something to do with the reputation I’ve gathered.”

Ozpin nodded, “Good, we can cut to the chase.” He leaned closer to the screen, brow furrowing, “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

The man huffed, “Is it not obvious?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Beacon’s Headmaster coldly replied. “Gods’ sakes, you’re going around killing people.”

A scoff, “It’s not as though I’m breaking into people’s homes and smothering babes in their cribs.”

“Yes,” Ozpin drawled, “you’re only saving grace.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Did you offer any of them the chance to turn themselves in?” Gehrman’s flat stare spoke wonders. “Why?”

The man scowled, “You believe that those who would betray their fellow men deserve a chance at redemption?”

“Yes,” he responded without hesitation.

“Then you are a fool,” Gehrman sneered.

Ozpin twitched, many a similar conversation over his long-life bubbling to the surface of his mind. And, as all those times before, he countered, “If we so firmly deny one the ability to grow better than they are, how can we call ourselves human?”

His ally snorted, “Do you and I even qualify as such anymore?”

Well…that’s certainly a response he hadn’t heard before. Pushing away the dark and terrifying thought, he said, “It’s not about you and me, per say, but the world at large. You are a Huntsman, a beacon for all to look towards.”

“And what of those I’ve killed? Were they not once ‘beacons’ themselves?”

At that, Ozpin allowed himself a small sigh. “It is a conundrum—one that prisons are…adequate at solving.”

The Huntsman scoffed, “You think placing handfuls of like-minded traitors in one confined space is a good idea?”

“It is when that confined space is a penal colony.”

Gehrman arched a brow, “Penal colonies? Shunting them out of the public’s eye is the better option?” Before Ozpin could reply, Gehrman gasped, smirking maliciously, “Ah…but it diverts the Grimm’s attention from the main populace, doesn’t it? All that concentrated negativity?” He chuckled, “That’s actually quite ingenious.” Ozpin nodded lightly, adjusting his collar. A barbaric practice, but an effective one. “Still,” Gehrman continued, the grim mirth fading from his eyes, “these people need to be hunted in the first place—regardless of whether that Hunt ends in their death. And I’ve yet to come across another that thinks as I.”

Ozpin chuckled, “To be fair, yours is a very…unique view,” Gehrman’s lips twitched upward. “But,” Ozpin sighed sadly, “you’re correct in that it’s not a task people readily jump to accomplish.” From the beginning, there’d always been the question as to how people were supposed to deal with errant Huntsmen. At first, they were simply executed—a solution he didn’t wholly approve of, but he had too many other things on his plate at the time to devote all his attention to finding a solution. Soon after (a few years after the King of Vale ‘died’), those left in charge lamented the permanent loss of ‘talent’, so other methods were sought out. Methods that seemed to change per kingdom, per decade.

“It is a demoralizing prospect,” Gehrman commiserated.

Ozpin cocked a brow, “You’re speaking from experience?”

A nod. “…I was not a fool. As more and more Hunters were trained, the odds of one deciding to turn against the people we swore to defend—for one reason or another—rose higher and higher. When such a thing occurred, I would eliminate the offending party.”

Ozpin blinked; _that_ would certainly explain a lot. “And what did people think about that fact that their leader would kill their comrades—traitors they may have been?”

“Take a guess,” Gehrman scoffed. His eyes then widened, lips curling into a smirk, “But…a solution did present itself. A solution that may also work here.” Ozpin, suitably intrigued, gestured for him to continue. “It was, oh…” the man’s face fell into a sneer for a second, “a few years after we made contact with _It_.” Gehrman coughed, schooling his features, “a Hunter had turned, but proved slippery. Managed to escape to the outskirts of Yharnam. As I was chasing them, I came across blood—a lot of it.” Ozpin grimaced, “But before I could worry about that, I came across a curious sight. A foreigner, dressed liked a crow, drenched in blood burning my quarry on a pyre.”

“A crow?” Ozpin asked, mind flashing to his own crow.

“He—Tobi was his name—wore a cloak that had black feathers sewn all along it, and a large bird mask over his face. He said the feathers upon his garb were meant to ease one’s foes way to the afterlife.” A chuckle, “The mask was both a means to hold incense to block undesirable scents and, in his words, ‘look scary’. Affable fool,” Gehrman fondly muttered. The man sobered, “Tobi informed that he meant to travel to Yharnam to learn how to hunt Beasts, and I allowed him. However, he proved much more adept at fighting his fellow men than Beasts. And, as a foreigner who so visibly clung to his homeland, he was treated with no small amount of scorn.”

Ozpin hummed in understanding, “He became your scapegoat.”

“Of a sort,” Gehrman nodded. “He became the Hunter of Hunters, taking on the worst of my duties with a disturbing amount of grace. And when he grew old and tired, he passed on his position to another foreign hunter, who passed on the position when her time came, and on and on until…” Gehrman trailed off, eventually shrugging, “The last I heard a woman named Eileen had taken up the mantle.”

“And now,” Ozpin said slowly, “you want to perform a similar…practice.”

“Ozpin,” Gehrman narrowed his eyes, “I’ve killed _twelve _traitors in the span of a month, all over Vale. You cannot tell me it’s not a problem.”

“Perhaps not legally. Morally—” Ozpin trailed off, ruminating on the issue. On the one hand, it’s murder, plain and simple. On the other…There’s a steady curtain of terror falling over Vale’s settlements, that cannot be denied. However, those settlements no longer had to worry about trained Huntsmen raiding them for supplies. Just the standard, easily beaten dregs that made up bandits. Although, that raised another question.

“Tell me,” he said, “how come the majority—all but two, I believe—of those you’ve killed are ex-Huntsmen? Yes, you’ve readily proclaimed your disgust for traitors, but there are more types criminals out there.”

“Well,” Gehrman shrugged, “there’s really no reason more than that. Certainly, banditry is a deplorable pastime, but ordinary bandits never once swore to devote their time slaying Beasts so that others might rest easy in the night. Besides,” Gehrman looked down, lips dipping into a contemplative frown, “imposing limits on oneself is the truest difference between Man and Beast.”

Ozpin considered the statement. “So long as those are _hard_ limits,” he concluded.

“Indeed.”

“And what of the Grimm? Do you mean to ignore them in favor of this vendetta?”

Gehrman scoffed, “The Grimm are a non-issue. Those I’ve managed to come across during my travels were easily dispatched. And there are more than enough skilled Huntsman going around protecting vulnerable settlements from them.” He sniffed, “Better I put my talents towards a different field.”

Ozpin grunted, “Talents indeed.” He leaned back against his seat, steepling his fingers. “…Gonna have to update your psychological profile.”

“Hm?” Gehrman cocked a brow.

Clicking his tongue, Ozpin said, “People, generally, don’t start killing people out of nowhere. There’s a course of events that leads to this sort of thing.”

“Oh?” Gehrman smirked, “Does this mean you approve?”

“Hardly,” Ozpin smirked back, “but I’d be a fool to refuse your services—macabre and bloody they may be. And with the reputation you’ve gathered, the more we give, the less claims people will make up. In fact,” he frowned thoughtfully, “play our cards right, and you might garner a bit of sympathy.”

“Because that’s obviously our greatest concern,” Gehrman said with a roll of his eyes. He then asked, “If I’m to have a history of mental issues, how come I was allowed to become a Huntsman in the first place?”

“Skill,” Ozpin quickly replied. “That, unfortunately, tends to take precedence over anything else. Although,” he drummed his fingers against his leg, “it’s not as though you would have displayed such murderous desires in your youth…there’d be a trigger of some sort, linked to events in your past, that made you snap.”

“Abuse of authority,” Gehrman supplied. “I grew up in Vale’s ghetto’s, right?” he said with a smirk. “Such places are often rife with corruption.”

“Unfortunately,” Ozpin agreed. “No doubt you were witness to many such unreported events.”

“Terrible shame, how such things can mold young, impressionable minds.”

“Oh,” Ozpin sighed, “save it for someone who cares.” Gehrman chuckled, nodding lightly. “For that matter,” he continued, “there are a handful of unsolved bandit killings—people coming across corpses in the road and such. We could attribute those to you.”

Gehrman grunted, “So long as those bandits were once Huntsmen—to firmly establish a pattern.”

“Right. Also,” Ozpin hummed, “I can assume that you plan on travelling to the other kingdoms?”

“Pickings are getting a little slim in Vale, I must say,” Gehrman replied with a grin.

Ozpin huffed, “All I ask is that you avoid Anima.”

“Why?” Gehrman asked with a furrowed brow.

“_Because crossing paths with Raven Branwen will end in disaster_,” he thought gravely. Aloud, he said, “Anima…is home to a number of bandit tribes.”

The bloodied man tilted his head. “Bandit…tribes?” he incredulously parroted.

“Ridiculous, I know,” Ozpin sighed. “I was there when the whole thing started. Before industrialization, Anima culture was heavily nomadic. Afterwards, there was a great deal of friction between those that wanted to—”

“Spare me the details,” Gehrman cut him off.

Ozpin grunted. “…Bottom line, it’s an integral part of the kingdom’s culture. The tribes spend more time attacking each other than committing actual robbery, however. They’re more a nuisance than anything else, these days.” 

“So long as none of their rank include ex-Huntsman, I have no quarrel with them,” Gehrman solemnly stated.

“Quite,” Ozpin smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He glanced at the clock. Four-fifteen. Nodding, he said, “Well, you’ve left me with a fair amount of work, again.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Gehrman said, bowing his head.

“Before we say goodbye, however,” Ozpin frowned deeply, “I must ask that you offer your targets the chance to peacefully surrender.” Gehrman scowled, but Ozpin held firm. “‘Imposing limits on oneself is the truest difference between Man and Beast’,” Ozpin smirked as his friend’s scowl deepened. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

The man scoffed but said, “Very well.”

Ozpin hummed, “Take care, Gehrman.”

“Likewise,” Gehrman replied, ending the call.

Ozpin leaned back; overall, he could count that exchange as a win. Although…it never hurt to make sure.

Taking another quick look at the clock—noting that t wasn’t yet Happy Hour—he dialed Qrow’s number. It rang five times before the man answered.

“Yellloooooo?” the man drawled, “Qro’ shpeakin’.”

Ozpin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It’s not even five o’clock.”

“It is in Coquina!”

“Coquina shares a time-zone with Vale.”

“…Your point?”

Ignoring the response, Ozpin stated, “I have a new assignment for you.”

Qrow grunted, clearing his throat, voice lowering to a whisper, “I thought I was—”

“You can return to that after this.”

Qrow grunted, “Alright, what is it?”

/+/+/+/+/

“Ow!” Summer shouted, bringing her left ankle up and rubbing it vigorously. “Who put that coffee table there?” she cringed, sucking in an anticipatory breath.

“Mommy,” Ruby looked up from her coloring book, smiling sweetly, “don’t you remember?”

Yang, who was cleaning the dishes with Tai, chimed in, “You did!”

“Yesterday,” Tai added teasingly.

“Oh, stuff it!” Summer shot back, fighting the urge to smile.

The front door slammed open. “Guess whoooo?” a raspy voice crowed.

Ruby and Yang brightened considerably—which, was saying something, in the former’s case—both joyously shouting “Uncle Qrow!” The red-eyed man entered the room, paper shopping bags in his arms, just in time for the girls to wrap him in tight hugs.

“Woah!” the man cried, teetering in place. Summer yelped, rushing forward to catch him, only to, once again, forget the placement of the coffee table. Her left foot caught a table leg, and she fell over with a short, indignant shout. She would have fallen on her face (for the second time that week) had she not used her Semblance, shooting out a rope from her right hand and latching onto the coatrack across the room.

Taking a moment to steady her breath, Summer raised her free hand, “Little help?”

“I got ya,” Tai sounded from her left, grabbing onto her shoulders. Releasing her rope with a sigh, Tai lifted her up, after which she ‘stumbled’ into his arms.

“My _Hero_,” she swooned, fluttering her lone eyelid.

Tai grinned suavely, “Well, I think this Hero deserves a reward.” Summer cooed, leaning up and puckering her lips. Tai chuckled, bending down and kissing her once. Twice. Thrice.

“Bleh,” Qrow spat, “see that, girls? That’s what happens when you fall in love.”

Yang and Ruby both made disgusted noises. “Never gonna happen to me!” the former declared, the latter heartily nodding her head.

“Oh, don’t say that!” Tai chuckled, holding Summer tighter. “You never know when the lovebug will strike.”

“Lovebug?” Ruby repeated with a tilt of the head.

Qrow grinned deviously, “You heard right Ruby. See, the lovebug is a terrible insect that, if it bites you, will make you act like _them_!”

Yang and Ruby gasped, stepping back and hugging each other fearfully. “No!” they cried.

“Ah,” Qrow grinned, bending down and placing the bags on the ground, “but there is a way to keep them away.” He reached into one of the bags pulling out—

“Oh gods,” Tai groaned.

“Candy and soda!” Qrow shouted.

Yang and Ruby exclaimed wordlessly, snatching the sugary goods. “C’mon Ruby!” Yang grabbed her younger sister’s arm, “let’s hole up in my room!”

“The lovebugs will never get us now!” Ruby bellowed in her childish voice, the door to Yang’s room slamming shut.

Summer gave her teammate the stink eye (she wasn’t sure if it was more or less effective now that she only had the one). “_You’re_ going to clean up after them once all that sugar hits their systems.”

“Oh?” Qrow leaned forward, a smarmy grin on his lips, “are you sure this,” he pulled out a bottle of luiqor from one of the bags, “can’t change your mind?”

“We don’t drink Qrow,” Tai grunted dismissively.

“Really?” The insufferable man shrugged, “More for me, then. Ah, before I forget,” he reached into the other bag, “grabbed you these, Summer.” He tossed a shrink-wrapped package her way. She reached out to grab it, only fumbling a little before clutching it to her chest.

“Got it!” she triumphantly cried.

“So that’s, what, one-for-seventy-six? Summer clicked her tongue, lightly smacking Tai’s chest with the package. She then blinked (or winked? Still weird to think about) upon seeing what the package was.

“Are these…plain white eyepatches?”

“Wow, Qrow,” Tai said, glancing at the white eyepatch adorning her left eye, “that’s…nice.”

“They’re colorable.”

Summer gasped, and began cooing over the gift, “Awww! The girls will love it!”

“It’s why I bought it!”

Tai hummed in agreement. “You just missed lunch,” he said, “but we’ve got some leftover lasagna if you want it.”

“No thanks,” Qrow replied, grabbing the bags (which only held the wine bottle now), and walking over to the table, “grabbed some grub on the flight over.” Tai and Summer snickered, prompting a heavy blush from their friend. “Shut up, you know what I mean!” They laughed louder instead, Summer managing to sit down on the couch before her eye hurt too much.

“So,” Tai settled onto the couch next to Summer, “how’re things?” That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. Qrow’s face fell, and he looked away from them. Tai frowned, “Qrow?”

Their teammate gulped, pulling at his collar and uncorking the wine bottle. He took a long swig, “Ah, good stuff. You’re missing out.”

“Qrow,” Summer said gently, “what’s wrong?”

Qrow finished half the bottle before answering the question. “You guys, uh, seen anything on the news, lately? Not the local stuff,” he quickly added, “from the continent?”

“Nope,” Summer replied. She gulped, “Should we have?”

Qrow grunted, pulling out his Scroll, tapped the screen, and tossed it to Tai. “Read this,” he said.

Summer scooched closer, furrowing her brow at the title, of the article on the screen, ‘Terror Across Vale: A New Kind of Huntsman?’ Just the title gave her the willies—the article itself sent a chill down her spine.

Tai gulped audibly, a much more subdued reaction to Summer’s own shocked gasps. “Is…Is this all true?” her husband asked.

“Yup,” Qrow somberly replied. “Got at least twelve kills under his name—probably more.” He finished the wine, “Suffice it to say, probably a good idea to—”

“Our offer still stands,” Summer firmly cut him off.

Qrow and Tai stared at her, eyes wider than dinner plates. “Umm,” Tai chuckled hesitantly, “maybe we _should_ get you checked for brain damage.”

“Tai,” she narrowed her lone eye at him, “I’m serious.”

Qrow cleared his throat, “Summer…this guy’s bad news.”

“Is he?” She blushed, “I mean, sure, he kills people which…isn’t great. But…he also saved my life?” She shrugged, “If he were so horrible, would he have done that?”

Tai snorted derisively, “Like we’re such great authorities on discerning someone’s true personality.”

Summer wilted slightly. Raven…you never did know when she would spoil the mood.

“But,” Summer looked up as her husband crossed his arms, “…we did promise. It’d set a pretty bad example for the girls if we shirked on that.”

“You two are crazy,” Qrow deadpanned.

Summer smiled widely, leaning over and (barely) wrapping her arm around Tai’s wide shoulders. “That’s what makes us work!” Tai grinned, leaning his head against hers.

“Bah,” Qrow groused, drumming his fingers on the table. “…If he comes, I come.”

Summer smiled widely, “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Qrow smirked back, tilting the empty wine bottle her way.

_BANG_

Summer, and Qrow and Tai, jumped, reeling back when Ruby—face stained with soda and chocolate—literally bounced into the room. “HeyUncleQrowgotanymorecandyweneedittokeepawaythelovebugs!” She started to hyperventilate, before burping, and falling over with a dazed smile.

The three adults blinked, Tai tentatively rising out of his seat.

“NOOOO!!!”

“Wha—hey!” Tai jerked back as a foam arrow struck his head. Yang burst forward, wearing a red sash on her forehead, a fierce look in her lilac eyes, chocolate smeared on her face to look like camouflage, and the toy crossbow they’d given her for her birthday held firmly in her hands.

“Stay strong Ruby!” Yang cried, loading another foam arrow, dragging her sister back to her room. “I won’t let the lovebugs get you!”

Tai hummed, staring impassively at Qrow, “That’s your cue.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

**/+/+/+/+/**

**A/N: RWBY looks cool, but it’s lore leaves much to be desired. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

Observations

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Qrow bit back a sigh, swirling his drink in his hands, taking rest under an umbrella set-up outside the bar. Coquina was nice, but he didn’t like staying in deserts longer than necessary. Hell, he should be far north, in the direction Hazel Rainart went. But then Ozpin called him about Gehrman, said, “Gehrman and I have come to an agreement,” never mind that Qrow didn’t know the exact details of that ‘agreement’—just that the psycho was offering to not immediately kill people, “but it never hurts to make sure.” Thus, Qrow flew back over to Vale (making a quick stop at Patch to try and convince his dearest friends that they were being stupid. Which never worked).

He’d been teased for being overly cautious (only by Summer, Tai still had his head on straight) but…Qrow knew almost nothing about Gehrman. And what he did know, didn’t come from Ozpin. The man was remarkable tight-lipped about Gehrman. That…was a weird feeling. He’d been on Ozpin’s side since he first came to Beacon. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but from the moment stepped foot on the grounds, he’d been converted to the immortal’s side. He’d thought Raven felt the same, but…

He cut off that train of thought with a growl; he wasn’t near drunk enough to entertain thoughts of his bitch of a sister.

Bottomline, Gehrman was a mystery—and one he was tasked with observing, not solving. Although, he could always ask the man himself. Ozpin never forbade him from just asking what was up with Gehrman but…no. He wasn’t _that_ curious.

Regardless, he’d spent five days waiting in Coquina (a place he’d only just left and could have stood to not visit for a while) for a hint of Gehrman. It was the first major settlement east of the border, and only an idiot would avoid it. And for all Gehrman’s many, many drawbacks, he wasn’t an idiot. Slow as all hell, though.

“For the gods’ sakes Bart, you’ve got to help me!”

Qrow turned at the sudden voice. There, just down the road (and getting closer, unfortunately), was the local pawn shop owner pleading with the captain of the city’s guard. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the pair like this. The dealer—he believed his name was Argus—had been robbed while coming back from a trip to Gossan. He didn’t have any goods in the car, but, as the man had proclaimed for the last two days, the car the thief had stolen was a gift from his father.

He wasn’t the only one hit by this particular thief—indeed, more than a few townsfolk would join him in their complaints. Unfortunately, this thief wasn’t ordinary scum. No, he was once a Huntsman, and far too dangerous for the local guards, (never mind the fact that Vacuo’s law enforcement didn’t really do much aside from keep Grimm from killing people in droves).

In truth, he could get understand Gehrman’s one-man crusade against rouge Huntsmen. Sort of. He was raised to follow vigilante ‘justice’ in Anima; killing those that wronged you and all that. But he didn’t like it and was grateful to find out the rest of the world didn’t either. Because if you started heedlessly killing people for their crimes…well, Qrow would have been hanged the second he turned eighteen. Of course, by that sentiment, Raven would also be dead, so he could consider it a win. Although, Yang, and Ruby, wouldn’t exist—and Tai, at least, considered them worth the pain. Of course, if Raven were dead, then Tai wouldn’t have felt that pain to begin with. He would have shacked up with Summer first—assuming she’d have the balls, of course. And assuming they would have still been on the same team if Qrow and Raven weren’t at Beacon. Of course, it would all be—

Qrow cut himself off with a groan—gods above, he was going stir-crazy. And he wasn’t even close to blackout drunk! What the hell was taking Gehrman so long?

He blanched, sucking in a breath, “Oh no, he didn’t die of heatstroke or something, did he?” On the one hand, he could get out of the desert, and Summer and Tai wouldn’t bring a psycho into their home. On the other…uh…hmm…odd, he couldn’t really think of anything negative that would come with the man’s death. Ozpin would be put-out, probably. But he was old (really, really old), he’d seen people die all the time. He’d be fine after a bit.

Qrow bit back a sigh; he’d probably be sent out to find the bastard’s corpse. Gods knew no one else would be bothered to do it.

“Want another refill?” Qrow looked up at the voice, to see the waiter making his rounds. He looked down at his drink; he was about halfway done with his fifth glass of bourbon—local stuff, decent kick. Ah, but he planned to be gone after sundown—and he hated flying with a hangover.

He sent his best smile at the man, earning a small blush in return, “I think I’ve had enough. Wallet’s taking a pretty heavy hit already.”

The waiter smiled, refilling his glass. At Qrow’s questioning glance, he winked, a saucy smile on his face, “It’s on the house.”

“Well, cheers to you!” Qrow praised, downing the glass in one gulp. Maybe he could spend _one_ more night in Coquina.

_vvvvvVRRRRRRRR_

Qrow paused, cocking a brow and turning around. That was a _very_ loud car. It barreled down the main road, kicking up sand and causing its own miniature sandstorm.

The car skidded to a stop, and Qrow could just barely hear Argus stammer out, “T-That’s my car!”

Qrow narrowed his eyes; what, did the thief want to upgrade? The Huntsman clenched his fists as the driver’s door opened—of all the times to leave Harbinger in his room! He rolled his shoulders, releasing the tight hold he normally kept on his semblance. With any luck the tires would give out, forcing the driver to stumble and give him an opening.

He relaxed—sort of—when Gehrman, of all people, stepped out of the car. Just in time for Qrow’s semblance to kick in, blowing the sand he’d throw up from his drive in everyone’s face. The natives took it all in stride, but Qrow was forced to bend down, covering his face and coughing madly.

When the wind died down, he looked up to see the captain of the guard and the pawn shop owner approach Gehrman (a sizeable crowd gathering around them. “Where’d you find my car?!” Argus shouted, pointing a finger at Gehrman.

The Huntsman ignored the man, looking to the captain with an arched brow, “Is this truly his vehicle?” The other man spluttered, face quickly resembling a tomato. The guard, however, paled, most likely recognizing exactly who Gehrman was. He did nod, in the end.

Gehrman inclined his head, “Then please, allow me a moment to empty the trunk.”

Qrow weaved through the crowd, coming to a stop a few feet in front of the trunk.

Gehrman popped it open and there was a horrified, disgusted groan from the crowd (which Qrow found himself taking part in) as an ungodly smell burst out from the trunk.

Argus gagged, but managed to say, “Is…is that the man who stole my car?” before he threw up.

“Yes,” Gehrman replied, heedless of the terrible smell.

The guard stared askance at Gehrman, “Is he…uh, you know…?”

“No, he’s very much alive.”

Qrow hummed thoughtfully, Ozpin would be pleased. Didn’t explain the smell though…Ah! Probably piss and shit. Not a lot of other things to do when a known psycho locks you in the trunk of a car.

“Oh,” the guard (and a good portion of the crowd), blinked, “I thought you…” the guard trailed off.

Gehrman smirked, staring down at the thief, “He’s the first one to accept my offer of mercy.” Or the first one to _get_ the offer. His face shifted into a neutral frown, “Where’s the hospital?”

“…Down the road.” The guard looked him over, “Are you injured?”

“No, but the thief is.” Qrow grunted; made sense.

“Ah,” the man looked down, only for the smell to force him to turn away. “Wha—urp!—what’s wrong with him?”

“Lost his foot.”

Qrow jerked back. What?

“W-What?” the guard stammered. Gehrman, in response, leaned down, hauling the thief up by his hair. He whimpered, and now even Qrow gagged as he saw the bloody stump that was the man’s left foot—it wasn’t even a clean cut; there were bits of flesh and bone dangling from his lower leg. Others in the crowd were much less reserved, and at least three people threw up on his shoes (not that he could blame them).

The guard stepped back as Gehrman dropped the thief. He fell on his stump, his pained gasp eliciting a new wave of cries. The man’s eyes darted open, landing on the crowd.

“H-Help!” he shouted. “You gotta help me! This guy’s fucking crazy! Tore my goddamn leg off!”

“Bite your tongue,” Gehrman commanded, kicking the man’s ribs. “There are children present.” Before Qrow could even think of trying to unravel _that_, Gehrman closed the trunk, holding out the keys to the still bent over shopkeeper. “Your keys. Obviously, the trunk is stained, but I can pay for—”

“Just keep it!”

“I beg your par—”

“Keep the damn thing!” Argus shouted, clapping a hand over his mouth and running away.

Gehrman shrugged, “Very well.” He glanced at the guard, “Ensure the bounty is deposited into my account.” With that said, he entered the car, the crowd hastily parting as he sped onward.

Qrow bit back a sigh; so much for spending the night.

/+/+/+/+/

It was almost admirable, how efficient Gehrman was. Park his newly acquired car (trunk still stained with blood) a few miles out, wait for night, sneak into the camp of whoever he was hunting, clap a hand over the mouth of his victim, offer mercy, kill them and decapitate them if they fought back, tear off (or otherwise break) their foot—the left one, more often than not—if they agreed, stuff the body (or head) into his trunk, and drive to the nearest town to collect the bounty. He’d done this twenty times over the course of two weeks.

Terrifying as all hell, but efficient.

Another thing that was just…odd about the man was his Semblance. It was some sort of portal, from what Qrow had been able to observe. But not like his sister’s. He wasn’t able to summon it anywhere, only on the ground, and he couldn’t enter it. He could, however, store things in it. Weapons, ammunition, food, clothes, gas for his new car…and corpses.

Qrow had no goddamn clue why the man kept the bodies (or why he left the heads out and carted them around before dumping them at a town to collect the bounty). At first, he assumed Gehrman just wanted something to hit on his off hours—but he spent his time reading his scroll when he wasn’t on the move or asleep (which he did sitting in chairs, Qrow noticed). He then thought that, maybe, Gehrman was a cannibal. A disgusting thought, but one that was dashed because, from what he had seen, the man didn’t eat meat. His diet was comprised of fruits and vegetables—the juicy kind. His final, terrible idea was that Gehrman was a necrophile. He certainly didn’t spare the prettiest man or woman a second glance. Thankfully, however, the man appeared to be asexual—didn’t even masturbate (not that Qrow was specifically looking for that sort of thing, but he’d seen some weird shit while spying on people as a bird).

When he first told Ozpin of his findings, specifically Gehrman’s new modus operandi, the immortal pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering obscenities under his breath. But for all his frustration, Ozpin was…almost amused by the current turn of events. (Something that formed a deep pit in Qrow’s stomach, but he didn’t have the balls to actually confront). When he told him about his Semblance, Ozpin’s eyes narrowed, but whatever thoughts came to the man’s head, he didn’t share (a common occurrence when it came to Gehrman).

In any case, Qrow’s mission was more-or-less officially over. But he hadn’t left the man alone, because freaking Tai and Summer wanted to be ‘decent people’. Ridiculous—but par for the course where those two were concerned. They (mostly Summer) still thought Raven was a good person, deep, deep down in her coal-black heart.

Now, he just needed to find a time and place to approach Gehrman, bring up the offer, and (praying to the gods) leave with his refusal. Alas, Gehrman never spent more than an hour in each settlement his visited—what little time he did spend he either bought gas, weapon supplies, or odds-and-ends from pawnshops—he saw the man walk out of one store with something like twenty different whistles.

He didn’t want to just approach Gehrman out on the road. For all his creepiness, the man was smart, and he’d quickly find out that Qrow sought him out, something he didn’t want to deal with.

For once, however, luck was on his side. A massive sandstorm was, essentially, chasing him and Gehrman to Vacuo City. That’d keep both of them trapped there for a bit. Then he could ‘unexpectedly’ approach the man, have a talk, and hopefully never see him again.

Easy!

/+/+/+/+/

The gods damn Vacuans and their shitty architecture! Their ‘city’ was little more than a rat’s maze of buildings. Qrow, in his infinite wisdom, decided to enter the city from the southern entrance, to not immediately run into Gehrman as he came in from the western entrance. And now he was lost. And he couldn’t just turn into a bird to try and find him—he felt too many eyes on him. (Unluckily for those eyes, they all too often ran into garbage cans, dog poop, or the odd rat colony).

At least Vacuo City had a Dust barrier that kept the worst of the sandstorm out.

He was able to find Gehrman, eventually. He just needed to follow the fearful whispers about Vale’s ‘Butcher’ spending the night at a local motel. A fair number of people also, rather suddenly, checked out.

If it wasn’t illegal to deny Huntsmen basic accommodations, Gehrman would probably have been blacklisted.

He made his way to the motel, grateful that there was a bar. A drink or two while waiting for the right moment never hurt anybody.

But his luck had, once again, turned against him, because Gehrman walked down the stairs just as he sat down. And immediately zeroed in on him. Joy.

The tall (taller than Qrow, which didn’t happen often) Huntsman sat down next to Qrow. “I recognize you,” he said, “you’re a member of Summer Rose’s family.” Technically true. “Qrow, correct?”

“That’s right,” the red-eyed man smirked, “and you’re Gehrman.” At the other man’s nod, Qrow gestured to the bar, “Care for a drink?”

Gehrman cast a critical gaze at the alcohol on display. He sniffed, “I don’t suppose this place has good wine.”

The red-eyed Huntsman blinked—he honestly hadn’t expected an answer. “You like wine?”

“It pairs well with most meals.”

“Any preferences?”

The man shrugged, “I prefer red to white. Dry, but I can stomach sweeter stuff.”

Qrow smiled; this was going better than he thought! “Well, let’s see what they have!” Alas, they did not serve wine. Gehrman declined anything else, but Qrow eagerly ordered a neat whiskey—local stuff, but it burned as well as anything else.

“So,” Gehrman crossed his arms, “Ozpin sent you after me?” Qrow choked on his drink. The taller man smirked, showing of his pearly white teeth, “Don’t act so surprised. I’ve recently had a rather important conversation with the man, and not a month later here you are,” he gestured to Qrow, who’s regained his breath, “one of the few people that both he and I know.”

Qrow chuckled, pulling at his collar, “You go straight for the kill, huh?”

“Only as needed.”

“Yeah,” Qrow frowned, “I…heard about your handiwork.” Gotten a bird’s eye view of it too—ugh, he was spending too much time around Tai.

A huff, “You disapprove, I take it?”

“Me and a ton of other people.” Gehrman just hummed, gray eyes narrowing as Qrow downed the rest of his drink. “Look,” he said, voice flat, “Ozpin sent me to look after you, yes, but that’s not the only reason I’m here.” He gulped, tapping his glass against the table, “Tai and Summer want you over for dinner.”

Gehrman leaned back, eyes widening. “…You’re joking.”

“Gods I wish,” the Huntsman blurt out. He paused, almost apologetic, but Gehrman just crossed his arms.

“I assume this is meant to be in thanks for my rescue of Summer?”

“Yup.”

“They are aware as to my reputation, no?”

“Yup.”

“And they still want me into their home?”

“Yup.” This was good. Gehrman obviously thought it was stupid too.

“Very well. I accept.”

…What?

“Don’t look so surprised,” the man’s smile returned, “it’s the polite thing to do, after all.”

Qrow bit back a sigh; well, guess they were doing this. “Alright,” he nodded, “I’ll give them a call.”

“Excellent,” Gehrman stood up, “Ozpin will have my scroll number. Go through him and inform him—”

“We’re going this weekend.”

The man blinked, “‘We’?”

“You don’t know where they live,” Qrow shrugged, “and I _am_ a member of the family.” And he didn’t trust that Gehrman wouldn’t kill anyone on the way to and from Tai and Summer’s home.

Gehrman smirked in a way that told Qrow he knew the real reason he wanted to escort him. He recognized the smirk. Ozpin wore the same one more often than not. (Is that why Ozpin was so interested in him? They were alike? But Ozpin was, well, immortal, so…what did that make Gehrman?)

“Very well,” the man said, “when do we leave?”

“I’ll call ‘em now. Bullheads are probably down because of the storm, so we’ll head out tomorrow morning.” He looked up, “If you want, I can help you pay to transport your car or store it here.”

“There’s no need,” Gehrman replied, “I can take care of my vehicle myself”. Qrow cocked a brow—either money was no object (which it might not have been, given the amount of bounties Gehrman’d collected), or his Semblance was versatile. The other Huntsman bowed lightly, “I shall see you in the morning,” and strode away for his room.

Qrow tilted his head, ordering another drink and pulling out his scroll. Into to breach he went…

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: I have a lot of questions about Qrow, and the only thing I’ve decided on is that he’s bi, with a preference for men. He won’t deny a pretty woman, but he only goes out of his way for men. I have no basis for this other than the fact that he showed no hints of sexual attraction until season 7 towards Clover. In any case, a dinner party’s coming up. That’ll be fun. Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

Be Our Guest

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth**

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Qrow thanked the gods that Summer and Tai hadn't asked too many question about how he got Gehrman to agree to the dinner—he wasn't entirely sure himself—instead handing the phone to Yang and Ruby so they could pester him about whatever the hell came to their minds—ranging from favorite colors to the best weapons (that one was mostly Ruby)—until midnight (Tai, it would seem, was still pissed about the week-long sugar rush he gave the girls before hightailing it out of Patch).

Getting to Patch was another, easier matter entirely. When word got around that the 'Butcher' was booking a bullhead, all the other passengers found some reason or other to cancel their trips for the day. Even the ones not heading to Vale.

Of course, that left him alone with Gehrman in a confined metal box flying miles above the ground. On the bright side, if he disappeared, people would quickly notice.

…Ah, that wasn't fair. Gehrman was creepy and didn't bat an eye at killing or crippling someone, but he wasn't a monster. He did save Summer, after all. Ideally, that should have earned him brownie points for life. But…well, then he went on to become the 'Butcher of Sanus' (he upgraded from the 'Butcher of Vale').

Gehrman didn't seem to mind the silence, though. He was content to read his scroll, not making a peep. That was a different kind of creepy.

Deciding to extend the olive branch (because Summer would give him a disappointed and exasperated stare if she found out he spent hours with the man and didn't even try to talk with him) Qrow asked, "What are you reading?"

"An article on the differences between Faunus and Human genetic material."

"…Ah."

"It's really quite fascinating," the tall man said without looking up from his phone. "There's actually very little difference between the two species; which is obvious given the fact that they can interbreed and produce fertile offspring. The specifics of it all are quite fascinating."

"Really?" Qrow asked, cursing his big mouth (and Summer for instilling an intense fear of disappointing her).

"Indeed." Gehrman looked up, then, and arched a brow, "Are you actually interested, or simply being polite? Because there is no wearier a conversation than one with an unwilling participant."

Gods the man was long-winded. But Qrow was bored, and he didn't want to get drunk right now, so he said, "By all means, go on."

Gehrman stared at him, before nodding, "Did you know there is no rhyme-or-reason as to whether a child born of a human-faunus pair will be a human or a faunus?"

Qrow considered the question, "No, but it makes sense." He crossed his arms, "Mankind used to keep faunus as slaves, and more than a few people, er…" he trailed off,

"Raped them," Gehrman concluded with a wave of his hand, "We're both adults, Qrow."

The red-eyed man chuckled, "Fair enough…But yeah, if either species had truly dominant genes, one would be nearly wiped out by now."

"Correct."

"But…there's a lot of humans out there that have a faunus ancestor somewhere down the line. Pretty sure I have one." It's the most likely reason, Ozpin had told him, why he and Raven could transform into birds. Otherwise they would have become something like a dog or cat or even a fish. Which brought something else to mind. "What about aquatic and amphibious faunus—the ones that _have_ to live near water?"

Gehrman blinked, "That…is not something I've come across." He looked back at his screen, eyes narrowing, "…Ah, here we are…oh."

"Find something?"

"Some of them lay eggs."

"What?"

"Yes," Gehrman moved closer, showing Qrow his scroll. On the screen were (clinically tasteful) photos of different type of aquatic faunus. Some had gills, others scales, or webbed hands and toes. And, strangest of all, perhaps, were the ones that didn't have legs, but fish (or dolphin) tails. To be honest, he thought that last type was a myth humans made up to mock faunus.

Gehrman took back the scroll, scowling as he typed on it, "…There doesn't seem to be any literature on the subject." He hummed, looking away from the device, "Well, obviously, the ones with only gills and such would be able to breed with humans. But the ones with fins, the ones that lay eggs? How are they inseminated? Does a male just ejaculate on a clutch of eggs and call it a day?" Qrow cringed at _that_ mental image. "Considering how emotionally vital the act of intimacy can be for the majority of people, it doesn't seem like those type of faunus would come across that many willing partners."

Qrow grunted, "There's other faunus of that type, you know. They tend to be close-knit communities—can't be a shortage of potential partners."

"Ah," Gehrman raised a finger, "but we're discussing how human-faunus crossbreeding works."

Qrow hummed, surprising himself when he actually considered the problem. Was he…actually getting along with Gehrman? About the intricacies of faunus/human reproduction? He decided to move on and accept the weird, before it swallowed him whole. "Well," he said after a moment, "with the advent of the internet, and the global connection that came along with it, it'd be easier for aquatic faunus to find a willing partner. There's all kinds of people in the world."

"But what of the children?" Gehrman asked, "Would non-aquatic children risk drowning? Is it even possible for a pure, technically at any rate, human to come to term under such circumstances?"

Qrow clicked his tongue, further drawn into the second strangest conversation he'd ever had to pleasure of participating in (the first being the time Ozpin asked him and Raven if they'd like to gain magic powers to fight a shadow war against a genocidal maniac).

/+/+/+/+/

Summer let out a breath, smoothing out her jeans, and readjusting her eyepatch (a plain black one, no matter how much she wanted to show off Ruby and Yang's drawing 'skills'), "Everything ready?"

"We can still call this off," Tai said in lieu of a response.

Summer sniffed, lightly slapping his shoulder, "Too late for that, they landed this morning. And we bought that wine on Qrow's recommendation."

"We can say the girls have the flu."

"Yang and Ruby are looking forward to this more than we are," she reminded him.

Tai grimaced, "That's _not_ a good way to change my mind."

"All they know," Summer said, brushing some lint off his dress shirt, "is that the man that saved my life is coming over for dinner."

"Yeah, yeah," her husband sighed, "…They don't know what he's been doing, right?"

"I'm sure," Summer nodded, "Yang would've started yelling at us for putting Ruby in danger."

Tai smiled, "At least one of us has a good head on their shoulders."

Summer pat his cheek, "And what a surprise, it's the other blonde."

"Hey, we're Xiao-Longs! We're trendsetters!"

Summer blinked, "Yang's using your last name?"

A shrug, "I've been looking through her schoolwork. She's been signing stuff as 'Yang Xiao-Long' more often than 'Yang Rose'." He looked down at her, a frown on his face, "Is that a problem?"

"Nope," she replied, smiling up at him. "It rolls off the tongue better anyway. Besides," she crossed her arms, "Ruby's probably taking my name."

"The alliteration is appealing."

Summer smiled softly, "And she's already preferring red clothes."

"Does make her easier to shop for than Yang." They chuckled, remembering the lost shopping trip they took their children on, which their eldest daughter quickly took over. Even though their finances took a bit of a hit (Yang having just started learning to weaponize her pout, and teaching Ruby to do the same) Summer still considered the day a win. She'd only banged her legs on three things that day!

_Ding-Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong-Ding-Ding-Dong_

Summer took a deep breath, "Into the breach we go." Tai smirked, leading the way to the front door.

Ruby and Yang came zooming in from their room. Ruby wore a simple red sundress, and Yang wore a new outfit she'd bought—a green floral blouse and a long (stopping just below her knees), purple plaid skirt. Ruby smiled at them, "They're here?!"

Tai stopped before them, smoothing out their youngest child's dress, "Yes. Now remember, be polite. Uncle Qrow said that Gehrman's a quiet person. So, don't get mad, Yang," he sent a flat stare at their eldest, "if he doesn't tell you everything you want to know."

Yang huffed but kept silent. She wasn't a brat, but their little girl had a temper on her. The most consistent trigger seemed to be when her flowing, golden blonde hair got dirty or mussed up (Summer feared the day when they finally went to get her a haircut).

Leaving Tai to fuss over the girls, Summer strode over to the door. She opened it, smiling at Qrow's lanky form. Only for her lips to into a frown at the nervous quiver in his lips. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked her up and down, "Oh, uh, it's just that…Gehrman," his voice dropped to a whisper.

Summer gasped, paling—oh god, had he killed someone in Patch?!

"Nothing like you're thinking!" he reassured her. "It's just…uh…"

"Is something the matter, Qrow?" came a smooth, low voice that Summer could just barely recognize. Qrow sighed and stepped aside revealing—oh!

The first thing that struck Summer was the top hat. She'd heard that he liked to wear one while…in the field, but this one was pitch-black, with a shiny, red velvet trim. A fancy man's hat.

He wore what she wanted to call a tuxedo, but she knew that wasn't it. It was…fancier than that, more colorful than a standard penguin suit. Not to say that it was tie-dye or anything, but he had on a dark brown coat, a red vest with silver accents, and a white dress shirt on underneath it all. His pants were plain black, but his shoes were shiny black, had buttons, and came to a sharp point.

It looked like he was going to an Atlesian ball.

Gehrman tilted his head, looking Summer up-and-down. He turned to Qrow, "…Perhaps I did overdress."

"You're fine!" Summer said, even as her cheeks reddened over the comparison to her very, very plain attire. She cleared her throat, stepping aside and beckoning his and Qrow forward, "Please, come in."

Qrow burst forward without further preamble, Yang and Ruby shouting his name when he entered the living room. Gehrman took his time, taking off his hat and looking at their house as he walked up to her. Oh gods, was he secretly royalty or something? Would he make snooty remarks about how lacking they were out in the boonies?

Her fears were for naught, however, when he directed his gaze to her, smiling slightly, "You have a lovely home."

Summer smiled, relaxing a bit. "Wait until you see the inside!"

"You seem to be adjusting well," he said as she closed the door behind him.

Summer nodded, smile fading a touch, "It's gotten better, over time. I'm just glad I've got Tai, the girls, and Qrow to help me through it."

"Yes," she couldn't see his face, but his shoulders slumped a bit, voice dropping to a sort of melancholy, "A good, supportive base can work wonders for the healing process." Before Summer could even think about prying further, Gehrman's spine straightened, and he picked up the pace.

She had to admit, the dumbstruck look on Tai and the girls' faces (the latter two's jaws even falling open) was hilarious. A giggle burst past her lips before she could stamp it down. Tai subtly shook his head, but instead of glaring at her, he gestured to the left wall, "There's a rack for you to hang your, uh, things."

"Thank you," Gehrman bowed—_bowed!_—and walked over to the coatrack. He placed his hat atop it, and took off his coat with an impressive flourish, revealing that the back of his vest was solid gray, but bore the same silver markings as the front.

"Are you a king?" Ruby's voice broke through the silence. Summer looked down her to see Yang nodding her head.

Gehrman smirked, "No, child. I am not royalty."

Ruby blinked, "My name's Ruby."

"Of course." Gehrman turned to Yang, raising a brow.

The blonde girl startled, snapping her jaw shut, an easy smile forming on her face. "I'm Yang!"

Gehrman bowed—_this_ was the guy people called 'The Butcher'?—once more, earning a giggle from the girls. "A pleasure to formally make your acquaintance."

"You talk funny!" Ruby said amidst giggles.

Gehrman smirked once more, saying, "I've been appraised as to the loquacious manner with which I speak," and earning another round of giggles. Like a wave, the tension hanging over the remaining three-fourths of team STRQ oozed out of them.

Tai especially; he sighed, loosening his spine as he walked up to the girls, "Why don't we take our seats?" They nodded, Ruby grabbing his hand as they walked to the table. Qrow followed after them. Summer made to follow, only for Gehrman to tap her shoulder.

She turned, blinking at his stern expression, "I can assume," he whispered, "you haven't informed your children as to the particulars of what it is I do."

Summer nodded, narrowing her eye, "That's right. And we plan on _keeping_ it that way."

"Of course." The tall Huntsman's lips pulled into a polite smile, and he offered his arm out to Summer.

She blinked, chuckling, and taking the arm, "My, such a gentleman."

"I've found that elegance is the height of humanity," Gehrman replied as she led them to the dining room, and the large round table where they would be having their meal.

Qrow—pouring out the wine he told them to buy—stared at the two of them, cursing when the wine almost spilled over. Yang and Ruby—sitting right next to each other as usual—hunched closer together, whispering as they stared at Gehrman. Summer was able to catch the words 'liar' and 'secret' and 'royalty'—something Gehrman must've heard as well, given the way lips twitched into a wider smile.

Tai walked in with their dinner—roast beef, pasta salad, and (despite the girls' protests) a large mix of vegetables. Summer separated from Gehrman, taking a seat to the right of Yang, a space for Tai to her left. Gehrman sat next to Qrow—directly across from Ruby.

Gehrman pulled his seat out with an amount of grace Summer didn't think was possible (and was almost certainly unneeded). He sat down, arms on his lap, nose twitching as Tai put the dishes down, but he kept silent. He did move when Qrow slid a glass of wine in front of him. He raised his left arm, taking the glass and giving it a soft sniff. He blinked, took a sip, and smirked at Qrow, "I see you've informed them of preferences."

"There's only, like, four different types."

"Actually, there are five different types of wine, crafted depending on the occasion, each type having their own multiple subtypes based upon the kind of grape, the amount of time spent fermenting it, the specific mixtures and—" he broke off into a chuckle, "My apologies, I appear to be boring you all."

Summer blinked, breaking out of her bored (not that she would ever admit it) stupor and blushing heavily. She opened her mouth but failed to come up with an appropriate response (she'd expected stunned silence at least once this evening, but not over _wine_!).

Tai, thankfully, picked up her slack. "Uh, me and Summer don't really drink."

"I prefer harder stuff," Qrow added, taking a drink of his glass, scrunching his face, and downing the rest of it.

"Me and Ruby are kids," Yang piped up.

Ruby nodded, "We only drink milk!"

Yang huffed, "Only you keep drinking that."

"Cause I wanna grow to be big and strong Huntress!" She beamed at Gehrman, "Like you, Mister Geh—Gee—Gah," she stumbled over Gehrman's name.

"Gehrman," the man supplied.

"Mister Geerman," Ruby said, only for her face to pinch, knowing she mispronounced it.

"Gehr-man," the tall Huntsman repeated.

"Grrman." Yang failed to hide a giggle behind her hands.

"_Gehr_-man."

"Gremlin." That one might have been on purpose.

Gehrman's eye twitched. He sighed, waving a hand in the air, "You may call me 'Mr. G' until you gain a better grasp on the pronunciation."

Ruby nodded, "Okay, Mr. G." She tilted her head, "What were we talking about?"

"You were saying that you wish to be a strong Huntress. However," he held up a finger, stopping Ruby from blasting off, "I believe talk of the future can wait. The food shall not be warm forever, after all." Ruby frowned, but she did nod, leaning back into her seat.

Tai took that as his cue. Clearing his throat, he said, "Please, dig in." And they did. At least, they tried.

Summer knew it was rude, but her eye kept getting drawn to Gehrman. Now even _she_ entertained the thought that he was some sort of king-in-disguise. He did everything with a subtle flourish; putting his napkin on his lap, getting his servings, eating his food, drinking his wine, _wiping his mouth_! It was absurd and, honestly, made her a little self-conscious.

"No, I think it's like this."

"Nuh-uh, like _this_!"

Summer blinked at the harsh whispers, turning to spy her daughters trying (and failing) to emulate Gehrman's fancy table manners.

"Children," Gehrman's calm voice made them freeze (and Tai jump in his seat. Qrow managed to stay in his seat, though his eyes did narrow slightly). Gehrman looked at the blushing girls, holding his hands out, "hold them like this. See how the knife rest against my fingers? The fork against my palm?" The girls hummed in understanding, mimicking his actions. At his approving nod, they started eating with gusto.

"Ah, Yang," Tai sighed when their eldest daughter started stuffing her cheeks.

"It is quite unseemly," Gehrman said, eyes returning to his food, "to stuff your mouth with as much food as you are able."

Yang looked down, chastised, only to glare as Ruby grinned at her, "Yuh, Yuhng!"

"As is speaking with your mouth full." Now it was Ruby's turn to look down, though Yang limited herself to a satisfied smirk.

The fell into silence once again, the scraping of utensils against plates (from everyone but Gehrman, somehow) filling the room. No one said anything until Qrow (finishing first, as usual) sighed, leaning against his seat and patting his stomach. He gently elbowed Gehrman, "Nothing like a homecooked meal, eh?"

The sharply dressed man jerked, the napkin he was cleaning his lips with pushing against his mouth. He narrowed his eyes at Qrow (who's smile faltered under the intense gaze), before huffing through his nose, pulling away the napkin to reveal the smile spreading across his lips. "While I do prefer my meat to be rare, this was a delectable meal. Perhaps the best one I've had in years. My compliments to the chef." He looked between Tai and Summer.

"Don't mention it," her husband said.

"We helped!" Ruby cried, Yang nodding eagerly beside her.

"Ah," Gehrman nodded, eyes crinkling, "I thought it had a…special touch." The girls giggled, and Summer felt a slight pang in her heart. Normally, everyone cooked together, but she still didn't trust herself around sharp objects in a small space. Soon, though. Soon things would _really_ get back to normal.

Tai cleared his throat once more, "Anyone care for dessert? Got a cake in the fridge."

"No thank you," Gehrman replied. Summer and Qrow offered similar, if silent, responses.

"We do!" Yang shouted. "I mean," she coughed into her hand, straightening her back and crossing her hands on her lap, "We would like some dessert, yes."

"Yes, we would," Ruby nodded, mimicking her sister mimicking Gehrman.

Summer resisted the urge to coo, instead rising to her feet, saying, "I've got the dishes." Tai nodded, heading for the kitchen.

"Let me help," Qrow said, gathering his and Gehrman's used dishes.

He followed her to the kitchen, where Tai was cutting up the cake—strawberry, at Ruby's insistence. Her husband chuckled when they got closer.

"What is it?" Summer tilted her head, putting the dirty dishes in the sink.

"Just," Tai shook his head, a wide smile on his face, "the girls learned more table manners in the last hour than their entire lives."

"Yeah, that's weird," Summer agreed. She turned to Qrow, "Did you—"

He cut her off with a shake of his head, "I didn't know he could put a Schnee to shame, no."

Tai blinked, "'A Schnee'? Why is that your default? You meet any of them recently?"

"No," their teammate shook his head, "But you know any other famously hoity-toity families?"

Summer hummed, "…You know, not off the top of my head."

"To be fair," Tai said, grabbing the girls' plates, "they _are_ the richest family on Remnant. Can't go five miles without seeing their logo slapped onto something."

"At least it's nice to look at," Qrow shrugged, she and him following Tai back to the table. Where they saw that Yang and Ruby taken the seats on either side of Gehrman, staring up at him in awe (Ruby especially).

"—was a genius feat of engineering, if I do say so myself. I—ah," Gehrman nodded at their approach, "I believe your desert is here."

But to Summer's surprise, instead of immediately grabbing the sugary sweet, Ruby started hopping in her seat. "MommyMommyMommyMommy!" she shouted, "Mr. G made his first weapon by himself!"

Summer smiled, reaching out and ruffling her daughter's hair, "Most Huntsmen make their first—if not every—personal weapon."

Yang rapidly shook her head, "No, Mom. He actually _made_ it. Every part with his own two hands!"

Summer cocked a brow at that, "Really?"

"Wait," Qrow said at the same time, "…Yeah, I remember. Your weapon's handle was originally wood, right?"

Gehrman nodded, "Correct." Summer furrowed her brow; wood? Either he was a fan of classics (which, given his current clothes, he very well may have been) or he couldn't afford better materials when he started out.

"He chopped down a giant tree all by himself!" Yang shouted pumping her fists, "And then he grabbed a shooting star and carved his blade out of it!"

"What?" Tai asked with a chuckle.

"I found a meteorite in the woods one day," Gehrman supplied. "I didn't immediately use it to make a weapon—when I was younger, I just liked to look at it as it shone in the sunlight." He shrugged, "When I decided to devote my life to hunting beasts, I decided, instead of buying metal or trying to mine it out of the ground myself, I'd just roll the metorite over to a blacksmith that owed me a favor."

Summer blinked, "Wait…you're telling us that…you're weapon—"

"It's a space sword!" Ruby shrieked. "Have you _ever_ heard of anything so _AWESOME_?!"

Tai looked at Ruby, then Summer, "…Honestly?"

Summer smiled and shrugged; the Silver Eyes were very useful, but she and Ruby were just one of many who had it throughout history. A space weapon was, truly, unique. And awesome.

"Can we see it?!" Yang asked, leaning closer and smiling up at Gehrman.

"I think not," Gehrman said.

"Why?!" Ruby whined.

"I doubt your parents would appreciate a weapon out on the dinner table." As one, Yang and Ruby turned to her and Tai, pouting and staring up at them with their best puppy-dog eyes. Summer tried not to grimace—one of them she could rebuff. Both of them? It'd be easier to pluck out her other eye.

"…Maybe after desert," Tai said, breaking first (he always did, to Summer's eternal thanks).

Their daughters' eyes brightened, and they tore into their cake with gusto.

"Ah-hem," Gehrman coughed into his hand before Summer or Tai could scold them. Yang and Ruby paused, both midbite, to see Gehrman dab at a piece of icing on his sleeve.

"Shurrey," the girls mumbled bashfully through their food.

"Oh, it's quite alright," Gehrman deadpanned, though his lips twitched upward.

The girls ate in a much more civilized manner. But when they finished, they leapt out of their chairs, each tugging on one of Gehrman's arms. "C'monC'monC'monC'mon!" they shouted.

Gehrman looked up at Summer and Tai, gaze questioning. Did they want Ruby and Yang to squee over a weapon that had…been used to kill _people_? Of course, that same weapon also saved Summer's life. Tai looked over at her, and after a minute, she nodded. His eyes widened, before narrowing. But she stood firm. Rolling his eyes, he nodded his consent.

When Summer nodded at him, Gehrman finally allowed the girls to lead him away.

Qrow sighed beside her, "I remember when Ruby got all starry-eyed when she first saw Harbinger."

Tai smirked, "How's it feel being replaced?"

"Oh, I could _die_," Qrow exclaimed, clutching his heart and pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.

They walked to the living room, where Gehrman was sitting on the couch, Yang and Ruby on either side of him. He looked up at Summer and Tai one last time. "You are both comfortable with this?"

Summer nodded. Tai sighed but gestured for Gehrman to continue.

The tall man grunted, lifting his right arm, and snapping his fingers.

Nothing happened.

Gehrman frowned, snapping his fingers again.

Nothing.

Summer heard Qrow hum, looking over to see him narrowing his eyes, lips dipped into a frown.

"…the next five seconds or I swear…"

Summer turned back in Gehrman, not quite catching his frustrated mutter, in time with his third snap. The final one, as it were, because his weapon—a large, beautiful, and above all _sharp_ silver scimitar appearing out of this air, hovering above the coffee table.

"So cool!" Ruby exclaimed, Yang silent, but just as enthusiastic. The former reached her hand out towards the blade.

Only for Gehrman to snatch it up in his hands, bringing it close. "I would not," he said gently. "Both edges are very sharp, you could cut yourself."

"He's right, Ruby," Tai scolded, "You know better than that."

"Sorry," their youngest daughter responded, her eyes glued to the weapon.

"What's its name?" Yang asked. A good question, in Summer's opinion. All the best weapons had names.

"This," Gehrman lifted the blade up, tip pointing towards the ceiling, "is the Burial Blade."

"Pretty morbid," Qrow said, looking everywhere but the weapon (he'd probably seen it 'in use' more often than he'd have liked).

"It is a weapon, Qrow. A tool with but one purpose, to _end_ things." He tilted his head, staring at his blade with an indescribable expression, "No aspect of it should be treated lightly."

Perhaps not, but Summer couldn't help but think such a topic could wait until the girls hit the double-digits. She cleared her throat, gesturing to the weapon, "What are those symbols etched onto the blade?"

Everyone (Qrow especially) leaned closer to the blade to better see the symbols. Gehrman blinked, "Oh. Those are just…scribbles from a dead language. I thought they looked nice."

"You don't remember what they mean?" Qrow asked, eyes alight with suspicion.

"It was years ago—I was a boy, staring out into the horizon, more important thoughts filling my mind."

"Like what?" Ruby asked.

"How to better protect my fellow man—and faunus," he quickly added, before scowling, "There _must_ be a colloquial term that encompasses both species."

"People?" Tai supplied.

"I suppose…" Gehrman trailed off, scowl lessened, but still present.

"Can I hold it?!" Ruby burst, jumping up and down on the couch.

Gehrman huffed, "It's at least half your height," he said.

Ruby tilted her head, "And?"

"You are incapable of holding it—"

"Am not!" Ruby pouted, hands to her hips.

"Safely," Gehrman concluded. "The same goes for you," he said, turning to Yang, deflating the girl before she could even begin her question. Qrow snorted, and the girls glared at him.

But then Yang smirked, crossing her arms, "Don't know why you look so happy, Uncle Qrow. Mr. G's blade is cooler than yours."

"Way cooler!" Ruby shouted, mimicking her sister.

Qrow gasped, clutching his chest and falling back against the wall, "H-How could you?" He tilted his head up, "Oh, I can feel…my heart, it's breaking! I could die!"

"No!" Ruby shouted, rushing forward and hugging her Uncle's leg. "Don't cry Uncle Qrow! I didn't mean it! Harbinger's really cool too!"

"Ruby," Yang whined, shaking her head. Summer and Tai just laughed at the scene before them. Gehrman didn't laugh, but his eyes did shine with mirth.

/+/+/+/+/

Yang and Ruby ended up pestering Gehrman about his weapon for another hour. They probably would have gone all night if they hadn't started yawning up a storm around ten.

"Okay," Tai scooped them both up, "time for you two to go to bed. I've got'em," he said when Summer moved to help him.

"G'night Mr.G," Yang said, leaning on Tai's shoulder with a lazy smile.

"Nice meeting you," Ruby added, trying and failing to keep her eyes open.

"The pleasure was all mine," Gehrman said, bowing. Yang and Ruby giggled tiredly, finally disappearing behind the corner to their room. She, Gehrman, and Qrow fell into a comfortable silence. Gehrman eventually broke it, turning to Summer with a smile, "They are lovely children."

"I know," Summer reciprocated the smile. Gods, did she love Yang and Ruby. She…She would _never_ understand Raven's decision to run away. But (and she'd never admit it to anyone) she was thankful for it. She'd never have come to love Yang as she had or go on to have Ruby otherwise.

"They wish to become Huntresses, yes?"

She nodded, "Well, Yang's talked about it. Ruby's still a little young to really think about stuff like that."

Qrow sniffed, "Given how much she goes on about weapons, she might decide to become a blacksmith."

"Whatever they become," Gehrman cut in, "I'm certain they shall achieve it with great zeal."

"I'll let them know you think so highly of them," Summer said.

Tai returned to the living room soon, after, Summer shifting over in her seat to let him sit close to her. Summer leaned against him, kissing his cheek, "They settle in okay?"

"Yeah," Tai chuckled, "they were too tired to try and fight me on it." He turned to Gehrman, an easy smile on his face (something Summer was glad for), saying, "Though they did ask if we could have you over again."

"Truly?" Gehrman asked, eyebrows rising.

"Yup."

Gehrman grew silent, before sighing, "Alas, I may have to decline."

"What?" Summer leaned forward, "Why?"

"I do have a certain…reputation," the man said with a wave of his hand. "It would be in your best interest to not associate with me more than necessary."

Ah…That was a fair thought…

"I'll admit," Tai spoke up, "I was…reluctant to have you over in light of your recent…deeds. If we hadn't offered to have you over before you started…you know…" he trailed off, before shaking his head, "But, over the course of this night, I've come to realize that you're…you're a good person, Gehrman. Even with," he grimace flashed over his face, but his smile held firm, "what you do, I for one, would love to have you over again."

"Seconded," Summer said, smiling at Gehrman.

The tall man tilted his head, lips curling into a soft smile, "Thank you." He then reached into a vest pocket, pulling out a…pocket watch (gods, if he wasn't _actually_ royalty, he really committed to the bit). He opened the watch, frowning, "It's getting late. I should not keep you any longer."

"Oh," she shook her head, "it's no trouble!"

"I have an early flight."

"You do?" Qrow cocked a brow, "I don't remember you making a reservation."

"I have not," Gehrman said. "But I prefer to travel early, and," his smile grew devious, "my reputation means that all flights are private. I believe the pilots even push the bullheads to the upper limit, so they don't have to spend too much time locked away with me."

Qrow nodded, "That _was_ nice."

"Where do you plan on going?" Tai asked.

"I want to go back to Vacuo, I left before I could visit the jungles up north."

"Pack bugspray," Summer said, "there's an ungodly number of mosquitos over there."

"I'll be sure to pick some up."

"And after?" Tai asked.

Gehrman hummed, crossing his arms, "Atlas—it's the shorter trip."

"Be careful up there," Qrow scowled, "Atlesians are so uptight rule-following's practically a religion."

"Then my trip should be a short one," Gehrman said with a low smirk. Summer coughed awkwardly at the morbid joke (Tai and Qrow just looked away). The Huntsman rolled his eyes, "And with that, I've overstayed my welcome."

"Oh, no!" Summer shot up to her feet, waving her hands. "You don't—"

"It's fine," Gehrman cut her off, not unkindly. "My tongue waggles on certain matters when it should be still. In any case," he rose to his feet, "I should leave. I plan to be in the air just after dawn."

"…Alright," Summer nodded, "We won't keep you." Gehrman inclined his head, heading over to the coatrack.

Tai gestured to Qrow, "You staying?"

"I'm his ride," their friend said, "but sure, I can crash here for a night or two."

"I do have my own car," Gehrman said, adjusting his coat, holding his hat under his arm.

Qrow huffed, "I'm not letting you drive that hearse within one-hundred miles of my nieces." Well, there's a story there. Still, she and Tai led them to the front door.

Once outside, Gehrman put on his hat, and bowed at them (like the king he might be). "My sincerest thanks for allowing me into your home." He lifted his head, lips pulled back into a warm smile, showing off his teeth, "I had a wonderful time."

"So did we," Tai said, pulled Summer close, "and the girls."

"We'll try and see you off in the morning," she smiled back.

Gehrman straightened, "Please, do not go out of your way." He tipped his hat to them, "Goodnight."

"Night!" Summer waved. Tai just nodded his head with a smile.

Qrow jerked his head at them, "I still got a key, so feel free to head to bed," and walked with Gehrman to his (rented) car.

She and Tai waited until they were down the road before heading back inside. Tai closed the door, sighing deeply, shoulders slumping. "That," he chuckled, "was _not_ what I was expecting."

"Told you it'd fine!" Summer teased. Her husband huffed, gathering her up in his arms and marching for their room. She had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her joyful shriek from waking the girls.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: For those of you that don't recall, mermaid faunus are a thing, and they make no goddamn sense. RWBY's world has a rule that faunus can only have one animal attribute, but how is a fish tail instead of legs 'one' attribute? Anyway, be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

Dark Tidings

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth**

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Marcus Black let loose a content sigh as his home rose up in the distance. Only now, could he truly relax. Those days and weeks following the completion of a job—before he can retreat to safety of his own personal castle—were always the most stressful. But now, he no longer had to worry about cops on his tail, or idiotic clients that think they can kill him and erase what they'd done (he never killed them in kind, though. Just broke into their homes and took a picture of him standing over their—or their children's—sleeping forms with a gun to their heads. It tended to get the point across).

He unlocked the front door, walking into a dark house. Marcus narrowed his eyes, walking further in, Aura flashing across his body. His eyes darted across the dark room, arms held up, fists clenched.

But nothing happened.

Marcus scoffed, "Want me to come to you? Fine," he smirked, "I'll play your game."

He tiptoed through the house, heading for the basement first. It, like the rest of the house, was dark. He opened the door just a few inches, reaching into the pouch tied to his leg. He pulled out a teargas grenade (good for escaping in a pinch), primed it, and threw it down the basement.

But the only sound that followed was the steady hiss of gas. Either the brat managed to fix up one of Marcus's gas masks, or (more likely) he wasn't down there. He left the basement behind, heading for the stairs.

He should have gone there first, because light was coming in from the attic. A lot of light.

Abandoning all subtlety, Marcus stomped up the stairs. Gone barely a month and the brat forgot everything he'd learned. Disgraceful.

He slammed the attic door open, prepped to charge at his lazy son, only to pause at the sight before him.

Mercury may have gotten Marcus's build, hair, and eyes, but there was one major difference between him and his son. The brat was _far_ more studious at his eight years of age than Marcus had been at any age. So he wasn't entirely surprised to see Mercury sitting in the middle of an avalanche of papers, staring intently at his Scroll.

What was surprising, what made him pause, was the blank stare Mercury sent his way as he said, "People are asking for refunds."

Marcus blinked, his previous aggression making way for confusion. "People are what?"

The brat just tossed him his Scroll. Marcus indulged him, grunting upon seeing an article on 'The Butcher of Sanus'. A stupid name—sure, the man killed a lot of people (so many at a time that Marcus couldn't help but be impressed) but he didn't tear them apart. It'd more accurate to call him 'The Headhunter' or 'The Guillotine'.

He shook his head, turning his full attention to the article.

'The Butcher's Sordid Beginning,' it read. The Butcher—Gehrman was his name—grew up in Vale's ghettos and had a rough childhood blah blah blah.

He arched a brow at his son, who rolled his eyes, still sifting through the papers, "Keep reading."

He twitched at the command but stayed his hand—Mercury, for all the brat's faults, wasn't an idiot. He quickly learned not to waste any time with nonsense. Thus, Marcus returned to the article, skipping the boring bits.

'…He started his murderous career young. His early victims including Ulysses Aurum, Jade Trinidad, Karl Elm, and Alex Gol—!' Marcus gasped, recognizing the name.

At once, his previous anger returned. "Alex Goldman was one of _my_ kills!" One of his better ones, if he said so himself. Still made him chuckle, when he recalled the man's horrified stare as Marcus covered him head-to-toe in raw fire dust before throwing a lighter at him.

"Sure." Marcus whipped his head up at Mercury, who flinched, "I mean—that's not the only name." He gestured to the papers on the ground, "I recognized a few of them, and decided to look back through your old contracts."

Marcus narrowed his eyes, "You went through my study?"

Mercury gulped but, to his credit, he didn't fold. "Yes. I had to make sure, especially after we started getting letters from past clients demanding you return their money."

_Pat-Pat-PatPatPat_

Mercury snorted as Marcus turned to the attic window, "Speak of the devil." The boy made to get up, but Marcus moved ahead of him, opening the window and letting the messenger pigeon in. It flew to the corner of the room—where they kept the bird seed—and Marcus removed the message from its leg.

The rolled-up paper had a purple spider stamped on it; Misha 'Lil' Miss' Malachite's personal sigil. He didn't open it though. He was tired, and angry. He needed a drink, something to help him stew as he detoxed from his last job and planned how to best deal with this…situation before he could care about anything else.

"What's it say?" Mercury called out from behind him.

Marcus tucked the paper away, "You don't need to know. What you _do_ need to know," he turned to face his son, who stiffened under his gaze, "need to be reminded of, really, is that you cannot enter my study without permission."

His son paled, before flushing with anger. "What? But that's not fair! You were gone and I had to—"

Whatever he had to say was lost as Marcus hurled the Scroll at him. The boy dodged it, but it left him open for Marcus to knee him in the face. He'd gotten his Aura up in time—his body flashed white the second the scroll sailed over his bent over form—so he didn't break anything. But he was still lifted up from the force of the blow, letting Marcus grab him and throw him into the attic wall. Then, his Aura broke, but he grabbed the now-broken scroll, gripping it like a vise as he glared up at Marcus.

Marcus just smirked, letting his sons anger and indignation wash over him. It'd taken awhile, for the boy to default to rage instead of fear and sadness. Now Marcus could really enjoy their spars. However, he couldn't continue their current spat; he was tired, and Mercury, even if he'd broken one of the rules of the house, had done good work. Thus, he said, "Clean this mess up. Be in the basement by noon tomorrow for training."

The brat grit his teeth, but spat out, "Yes sir."

Marcus headed for the stairs but paused at the door. "You unlock your Semblance yet?" he asked

"No," was his son's quick reply. _Very_ quick reply.

Marcus looked over his shoulder, but the boy's back was to him as he knelt on the floor, gathering up papers. He could be lying, try to keep Marcus from stealing his Semblance (which wasn't 'stealing' so much as turning it off, but saying he'd steal the Semblance and maybe give it back would better motivate his son) or he could be telling the truth. Given that the boy was calmly performing his given task, Marcus was inclined to believe the latter. Unless, of course, Mercury had gotten better at lying.

He let the matter lie, heading downstairs to get drunk an forget about his troubles for a few blissful hours.

/+/+/+/+/

Arthur had to admit, for an immortal witch, Salem had a sense of style that would put any member of Atlesian high society to shame. If world domination didn't pan out (and in the millennia before she'd met him, it hadn't) she would make a terrific interior decorator. Granted, everything in their conference room was either black, red, or orange, but that didn't change to fact that the decorations carved into the table were gorgeous, or that the chandeliers hanging above them shone like the stars.

It really distracted from the dreary, desolate landscape just outside the windows. Ah, and who could forget the herds of Grimm that roamed all around them.

He turned away as a dozen Goliaths lumbered past. He shivered; he'd never get used to _that_.

He decided to invest the time he had in something useful before everyone else (all two-and-a-half of them) arrived. He pulled out his scroll, opening the file he'd compiled on Gehrman. The very light file. To be certain, Gehrman had quickly built up a ludicrously bloody reputation, but the man's early career, if not his entire life, was lost to amidst broken lines of code. And it was Arthur's fault.

He knew that some men cursed their genius. Pietro Polendina once lamented that his mind made it difficult for him to find love (to which Arthur, before he faked his death, would always reply that prostitutes were an option). Leopold Merlot—well, the less said about _that_ particular madman the better.

In any case, Arthur was not beset by that weakness. He was smart, incredibly so, and it had never given him cause to feel bitter over his intelligence. No, all the problems he'd faced in life were due to others' issues with his intellect, not his own. Until now, at least.

When he accepted Salem's offer to join her cause, she'd told him she could help him disappear from Atlas. But that wouldn't do. Even if his genius wasn't properly appreciated, a sudden disappearance would have raised a few eyebrows. Suicide was also out of the question, because any who spent more than five minutes around him knew that Arthur had no cause to kill himself. A suicide _bombing_, however, an attack on the institution and people that had stifled him at every turn? Well, anyone that spent five minutes around him knew that Arthur could very well do that.

So, Salem used her considerable magical might to create a flesh-and-blood copy of Arthur that blew himself up in the middle of Atlas's CCT server farm. The chaos the initial blast caused alone was more than enough to ensure Salem his eternal loyalty.

Alas, it was that exact chaos that was the cause of his current problem.

_Wha-BOOM_

Arthur managed not to flinch as the doors to the large room slammed open. Salem glided through, Hazel and Cinder—nose turned up in the air in a poor attempt of emulating Salem—following behind her.

She took her seat at the head of the table, Cinder taking the seat to her immediate left. Hazel slid into a seat directly across from Arthur. Something struck the scientist as odd with the arrangement—and then it hit him. There were no insane, reverential ramblings from a loud, homicidal Faunus.

Arthur had never liked Tyrian, but he had to admit the mercenary had a certain liveliness to him.

Salem let them all stew in silence before turning her coal black eyes towards him. "Arthur," she said, voice prim and proper, "you've finally gathered information on this mysterious individual that killed Tyrian?"

Arthur straightened in his seat, "…Sort of."

Salem shushed Cinder's infuriating giggle before arching a brow, "Sort of?"

He cleared his throat, "Do you recall how I entered your services? The way we faked my death?"

Salem smiled—lips pulling back much like a cat's—and said, "Yes. It was quite the show."

"And you remember that I told you that the secure Huntsmen servers in the CCT were the most impacted by the 'show'?"

Salem narrowed her eyes, smile disappearing, "What is it, Arthur?"

Welling up his courage, he said, "It would appear, that the man who killed Tyrian—Gehrman—his personal information was held within the damaged servers."

"And our destroying them…corrupted the data," Salem hummed, "That is the correct term, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mistress," Arthur nodded.

"So, that's why it took you so long, then?"

"Yes," Arthur clasped his hands atop the table, "Stymied by my past brilliance, unfortunately." Cinder snorted, prompting him to glare at her. Arrogant brat wouldn't know true genius if it bit her in the ass.

"In any case," Arthur, having more important things to worry about, returned his attention to the Scroll, "though his past is lost to the wind, Gehrman has a _very_ visible present." He tapped his scroll, sending the file to Hazel and Cinder (he, unlike the girl, was a professional). He then slid his Scroll over to Salem, who used her magic to float it over to her. An unnecessary display of her abilities. But then, that could be the point. A reminder of all that she could do, compared to them.

Cinder snorted when she opened the file, "The Butcher of Sanus?"

"Keep reading," Arthur stated. Her eyes narrowed—no doubt expecting a rebuke or cutting remark—but this was too serious for that. So Cinder did, her little eyes widening with every word she read.

He then looked to Hazel, who grew paler by the second. No doubt thanking gods he no longer believed in that he'd managed to escape with his life months ago.

Finally, he turned to Salem. He was expecting her usual stoicism—perhaps even a perverse smile at the thought of the fear permeating through the common rabble of Remnant. But neither of those things occurred.

Her grip on his Scroll was tight, so tight her arm was trembling, that he feared she would break it. Her face was pinched—eyes narrowed to slits; nostrils flared—lips curled into a sneer. She was muttering something. It sounded like…'hypocrite'? Interesting…

She caught him looking, and for a brief, fleeting moment, Arthur knew true terror as her inky black depths burrowed into his soul. And then, thankfully, the moment passed. Her stoic veneer returned, and she flicked her wrist, rocketing his Scroll back to him (he managed to catch it, but hissed at the impact). Cinder and Hazel finished soon after.

"Shall we recruit him?" Cinder asked, turning to Salem with bright eyes.

"No!" Hazel spoke up for the first time since the meeting started, slamming his fist against the table. "Are you insane?!"

Cinder scowled, but before she could make a (stupid and infantile) retort, Salem said, "It would most likely end in failure." When the brat turned to Salem with an inquisitive gaze, the witch continued. "This," her eyes flashed with fury once again, "…Gehrman has a very clear modus operandi." She sniffed, reigning in her temper, "He only brutalizes those society has deemed as 'criminals'."

"Specifically," Arthur spoke up, "criminals that were once Huntsmen or affiliated with them." He left out the implied 'like me', though the nasty smirk Cinder sent his way meant she wanted to bring it up.

"We shall not worry about Gehrman for now. If anything, his continued operations will only help us in the end." Arthur considered her statement. That would be true, so long as people did not become accustomed to his presence—to the idea of a murderous madman chopping off criminals' heads or feet—there would be a steady undercurrent of fear wherever Gehrman went. Fear that would attract Grimm.

But…that could, possibly, create more opportunities for Huntsmen. More jobs for them to complete, more chances for them to achieve juvenile glory and adoration.

Arthur sucked in a breath, eyes widening. Was that it? Was Gehrman just step one in a very long plan to further spread Huntsmen's influence and reputation? That…That was devious. Ingenious. Why hadn't he thought of it?

But who would be capable of such a thing? Certainly not the sticklers he'd left behind at Atlas (especially not the up-and-coming 'Golden Boy' James Ironwood). Vacuans could barely put up a wall without trying to kill each other. And Mistral was too busy forcing children to break each other's bones to care about anything else. Which left Vale, where Gehrman had first appeared.

Who was the Headmaster (because it was them, not the kingdoms' councils, that were _really_ in charge) of Beacon Academy? Ozpin, he recalled. Beacon's second Headmaster since the Academy's inception almost seventy years ago. Something of a recluse—he rarely made a public appearance. There wasn't a lot about the man out there. But for Gehrman to just…materialize in the middle of Vale meant that Ozpin _must_ be involved. If not in the man's appearance, then in all that he'd done since.

He'd have kept thinking on the problem, but Salem had kept on speaking, and he really ought to pay attention to her.

"…the Maidens shall be the key to our conquest." Salem paused, shifting her gaze to Cinder, who preened under the attention. Stupid child; she was a pawn in all this but was too infatuated with the promise of power to realize it. "However," Salem continued, "first, we must find them." She stared at Arthur, "That shall be your next task." He nodded—it'd be a nice break from the macabre and enigmatic life that was Gehrman. "Hazel," the bulky man nodded, "you've been compromised." The Valean looked a bit put out by the statement—one of the few joys he had left in life was wandering the wilderness and causing general chaos through Grimm. "But you should be safe in Menagerie," she scoffed, "No cares about the Faunus, after all."

Hazel narrowed his eyes, "And why would I go there?"

"To put out feelers to this newfound group for equality that's started there. The White Fang."

"What for?" Cinder asked, and for once, Arthur was of a mind.

At that, Salem sighed, "Tyrian's death has brought something to light that I've overlooked. That for all the skill you all possess, there's only three of you."

"We need bodies," Arthur concluded.

Salem sent a pleased, spine-tingling smile his way, "Who better to guide towards our goals, than those that already want to tear down the current society?"

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman arched a brow as Qrow and the Xiao Long-Rose family approached him at the Bullhead waiting area. "I'll admit," the tall Huntsman said, "I was not expecting any one of you to arrive."

The girls, bless them, were barely able to stand this early in the morning, but still sent Gehrman their best smiles. "We wanted to say goodbye," Yang yawned, swaying against Tai's legs.

Gehrman's lips spread into a soft smile, "While I appreciate the gesture, rest is vital for ones as young as yourselves. You need not push yourselves for my sake."

"You're funny," Ruby giggled, pressing against her sister.

Summer laughed, "Trust me, better they be tired now, then angry that you left without saying goodbye."

"We're menaces," Yang added, prompting Tai to ruffle her hair (and, Qrow was sure, if she were more awake, she'd have slapped his hand away).

Gehrman shifted his gaze over to Qrow, and then flicked it to the bullhead.

Qrow shook his head, "Fun as travelling with you is," he stretched his arms out, laying them across Tai and Summer's shoulders, "I prefer my R&R be longer than a day."

Gehrman hummed, "Perhaps…next time, I may follow your lead." He sent an inquisitive stare at Summer and Tai, and when they both smiled and nodded, he nodded in turn.

They settled into a somewhat awkward silence (occasionally broken by Yang and Ruby's tired mumblings), before Tai asked, "You said you planned on visiting Vacuo again?"

"Yes. And Atlas and Mistral after."

Summer tilted her head, and Qrow—knowing what question she wanted to ask—pinched her shoulder. She glared at him, but he just looked down at Yang and Ruby. That got her to back down. Eventually, they'd have to broach the topic of Raven to the girls (and gods above did he fear that inevitability) but not today.

Qrow looked back to Gehrman, who was talking with Tai about something—car mods? How'd that come about?—before a robotic voice droned that the bullhead to Vale was leaving in ten minutes.

"Guess that's your cue," Qrow said.

"I suppose it is." Gehrman took a step back, and bowed at them, "It was a delight to make your acquaintances."

Summer huffed amusedly, "I'd like to think we were all friends."

Something flashed in Gehrman's eyes, and he smiled, standing back up and tipping his hat at them, "Friends it is."

"Goodbye, Mr. G!" Ruby called out.

"Happy hunting!" Yang waved. Qrow, Tai, and Summer flinched at her words, but Gehrman took it in stride, sending them a toothy grin and silently waving as he made his way to the bullhead. He was the only passenger.

It was as they were leaving—after waiting for the bullhead to rise into the air any fly east—that Qrow first noticed it. The stares. All the way to Tai's car, people were looking at them. Whispering about them.

Qrow recognized what was happening—he'd run into it back when he first got into Beacon, when people found out he was from Anima. The fearful glances from people that knew you were different. Dangerous. (Raven reveled in it, craved it. But she also liked doing her make-up with Summer and reading with Tai and going up onto the dorm roof with Qrow to watch the stars, so, like a fool, he ignored the signs).

Tai and Summer noticed it too, given the way hurried the girls into the car. When they all got settled, the remaining members of team STRQ exchanged hard glances. They didn't—wouldn't—regret what they'd done, but they had to be wary of the consequences.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: Plot things are happening. And god, do I love writing Arthur. It's just so fun! Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17:

Cold Reception

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

Celia Palette hummed as she watched a video of Winter Schnee expertly completing the obstacle course before her. It wasn’t often that she was made aware of students that had just entered Tor Preparatory Academy, even if they belonged to a family as influential as the Schnees. But she had to admit, the girl was skilled. Finished the course just eleven seconds shy of the record for her year. And, from what she’d been told, the girl abhorred using her family’s influence to ease her way in school—she’d earned the praise given to her. The young soldier bore watching out for, certainly.

“General Palette,” a stern, if young, voice called, entering her office and standing at attention on the other side of her desk.

Celia closed the video. “General Ironwood,” she replied, smirking at the blush that appeared on his face, even as he stayed stone-faced.

He cleared his throat, “I’ve only recently made Lieutenant General, Ma’am. It’s still…strange to hear”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it, I’m sure. And you’ve more than earned your stripes” His blush returned, but Celia spoke the truth. He was devoted to Atlas, wielded a keen mind, and, perhaps most importantly in the current political climate, believed in equality between humans and faunus. Even if that last bit had earned him more than a few sneers in his life, he’d climbed through the ranks of his own skill and accord.

And earned himself a potential place with the true defenders of Remnant.

Ah, but formally inducting him into their ranks would come later. She straightened in her seat, “Now, why have you asked for this meeting?”

James nodded, pulling out a Scroll and sending a file to her, “A report of the recent rash of earthquakes, Ma’am.”

Celia frowned, opening the and reading through the report. Her eyebrows ended up shooting up into her hair, “‘No rhyme-or-reason’?” She looked up at James, “_This_ is the official report?”

“Unprofessional, I know,” her subordinate growled. Celia turned her attention back to the Scroll as he added, “But a correct assessment, as far as I’m aware.”

Celia’s disbelief reached an all-time high as she read the report. ‘No rhyme-or-reason’—despite being a deplorable way to describe things—was correct. While, yes, a number of Dust mines were the epicenter of some of the earthquakes, just as many were not. To say nothing of the fact that only two of the earthquakes (of which there had been ten in the last five months) were located near established fault lines.

She’d need to ask Ozpin’s opinion on this, see if he’d ever witnessed such a strange string of natural disasters in his impossibly long life.

She put the Scroll down, sitting back in her chair and rubbing her temples. “The affected towns and villages are receiving due compensation?”

“Yes Ma’am,” James nodded. “It’s in the report. After both Solus and Tinsel village were affected by the earthquakes, more and more Lien has been put towards relief efforts. Not even Jacques Schnee can argue against it.”

“Good—the less power that man has the better.” Celia had no idea what Nicholas Schnee was thinking making that Jacques the heir to the SDC. Or what he was thinking letting the man marry his daughter. Alas, Nicholas was dead, his secrets buried alongside him.

In the end, it was no matter. Jacques could play whatever games he wanted; Ozpin would run circles around him if he ever went too far.

She returned her attention to the report, only for a short ring to catch her attention. She looked up, cocking a brow at the sight of James frantically swiping through his Scroll. “Am I keeping you from something?”

He had the decency to blush, but his eyes were hard as he said, “Gehrman is on his way to Atlas.”

Celia beat down the wave of panic his statement brought. Curiosity quickly took its place, and she asked, “How do you know of this? While I’ve no doubt his appearance would quickly make the news, I’ve not yet heard anything.”

James, not looking up from his Scroll, said, “I have a friend in air traffic control. I asked him to notify me if Gehrman booked passage to Atlas.”

Celia blinked, before leaning forward, narrowing her eyes, “That’s a very thin line you’re straddling, James.”

“It’s necessary!” he stressed, looking up from his Scroll, his eyes blazing. “Gehrman is a psychopath that needs to be stopped and punished to the fullest extent of the law!”

“I’m not qualified to speak of the man’s mental faculties,” even if she did agree that there was _something_ wrong with the bounty hunter, “but he has not done anything illegal.”

“He’s chopping people up!” James exclaimed.

“Which, while certainly deplorable, is within his legal rights as a Huntsman chasing after criminals,” barely within them, perhaps, but within them, nonetheless.

“That…That man,” James spat, “is not a Huntsman!”

“Headmaster Ozpin seems to think so,” and while Celia had no idea why, she would respect his judgment. She cocked a brow, “Unless you think he has made a mistake?”

Anger flashed across James’s face, and for a brief moment, Celia was afraid he would follow the instinctual emotion. But patience won out in the end. He drew up to his full height, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m certain Headmaster Ozpin has acted to the best of his ability.”

Celia stared at James. He lasted for only a moment before he started to squirm, worry worming its way onto his face. Sniffing, she said, “Rest assured, Ozpin has Gehrman on a tight leash.” He’d never come out and said it, but it was obvious the immortal hero had something on the mystery man. Something that curbed his more…violent inclinations.

“Not tight enough,” James growled.

Suppressing the urge to click her tongue, Celia muttered, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” James paused, before shaking his head. At least he was honest. “…You have my leave to be at the airport Gehrman will arrive at.” James was too professional to break out into a smile, but his eyes shone with a mix of glee and smugness. “However,” she leaned forward, making him squirm once more, “you can _only_ observe him. If I get any word of him being unlawfully detained, I will have you court-martialed for abusing your newly given authority faster than you can blink!”

James gave a sharp salute, “You have my word, Ma’am! I won’t punish him without due reason.” Leaving it unsaid that he would look for _any_ reason to punish Gehrman.

She dismissed him, unable to think of anything else to say. She drummed her fingers on her table. James was a good man, but he could be overzealous in his actions. Ruminating on the problem, she decided on the best available course of action.

She dialed Ozpin’s number on her Scroll.

He picked up on the second ring. “Celia, how are you?”

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “We might have a problem.”

Her fellow Headmaster groaned, “What now?”

/+/+/+/+/

Gehrman quirked a brow when, in the middle of reading an enlightening article on the various types of diseases that directly affected blood cells, a call from Ozpin rang on his Scroll. The sound echoed across the empty bullhead (a rather pleasant consequence of his reputation, Gehrman was finding).

He answered the call, “Ozpin!” he grinned, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m afraid I have some troubling news before we can speak of pleasantries,” his fellow man of the Cosmos said, voice stern.

Gehrman grunted, straightening in his seat. “What is it?”

“A man by the name of James Ironwood in Atlas has taken a vested interest in you.”

“Oh? Have I killed or crippled a friend of his?”

“No,” there was a pause, “though I will look into that sort of thing. No, James is an Atlesian general that, well, takes immense offence with your existence.”

“Whatever for?”

“…Really?”

“Oh,” The First Hunter rolled his eyes, “Let me have a little bit of fun.”

“I’d prefer that fun not come with the risk of you being imprisoned.”

Gehrman blinked, “I’m to be imprisoned? On what grounds?”

“You misheard me,” Ozpin replied. “James means to have you imprisoned and will no doubt watch over you like a hawk in hopes of finding some sort of infraction to clap you in irons.”

The Hunter hummed, “Surely he can’t take such a grand offense to my existence.”

“Oh, I believe he can,” the Headmaster smoothly countered. “Now, I am by no means close to James, but I know his type.” There was a short pause, before he said, “He’s steadfast in his duty to uphold law and order. His offence is to your liberal means of bounty hunting.”

“If it is truly a problem there would be safeguards against my actions.”

“Yes, I imagine a new series of laws will be passed within the next decade to curtail your efforts.” He laughed, “If you continue your bloody streaks across Atlas and Mistral, this might be the first time in close to a century more than two kingdoms unanimously agreed on something!”

Gehrman grinned at the remark. He’d read about the kingdoms’ shaky alliances. Lingering resentments over the Great War seventy years past still lead those in charge by the nose, it would seem. Nothing overt—no one was clamoring for war or anything. But Atlas was more likely to give its best resources to Mistral first, and Vacuans harassed visiting Valeans less than other foreigners. They were little things, but they betrayed the global unity the kingdoms’ loved to profess.

It also spoke of the impossibility of Ozpin’s divine mission, but he wouldn’t gloat about it.

“Where was I?” Ozpin spoke up once more, trailing off.

“You were detailing James Ironwood’s gripes with me and my actions,” Gehrman replied. “My vigilante actions are a matter of personal offence to him.”

“Ah, right! However, your vigilantism is only part of the issue, I believe.” He grew silent once more. “Again, I don’t know him personally, but I believe your actions…confound his personal beliefs.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I believe that James has a very binary view of the law and law-abiding citizens. You either do, or you don’t, with all that implies. And then _you_ come along, someone who commits very criminal acts in the name of upholding the law. Order through chaos, as it were.”

Gehrman scoffed, “He dislikes me because I challenge his sensibilities? I’d expect that from a layman, not a soldier.”

“It very much has to do with the fact that he’s a soldier,” Ozpin countered. “Atlas, as you may know, is the only Kingdom that demands its Huntsmen join the armed forces.” He’d read about it. A sensible practice, in all honesty. What better way to keep track of them all? “A holdover of their…dictatorial past. James—like all children born the decades following the Great War—was brought up under the belief that Huntsmen were pillars of the community. The light that shines through the darkness.”

“And in I come,” Gehrman hummed, “staining that light in blood.”

“Yes. As bad as your reception has been on Sanus, I think you’ll find Atlas to be its own beast. They show no quarter against lawbreakers.”

“I am not an outlaw,” Gehrman said. He took great care to ensure he never broke a law.

“No,” the man agreed, “but you cannot deny that you recklessly straddle the line.” He would not call it such, but agreed, nonetheless. “But as long as you continue as you have, you shouldn’t get into any trouble.” His voice dropped a touch, “But if you do, if you are unjustly harassed, I implore you, inform me, and I shall get it all sorted it out.”

Smiling at the vow, Gehrman said, “I shall.”

“Well,” Ozpin’s voice gained a much more jovial inflection, “that’s enough of that. How was your tour of the jungles of Vacuo?”

“An…interesting experience,” he rubbed his jaw, “I’d never been to a jungle before—I’d assumed it would be akin to the forests of my homeland.”

“It’s not, is it?” Ozpin asked, mirth shining in his voice.

Gehrman resisted the urge to groan, “I’ve never known such humidity. How do people live there?”

“They typically wear less clothing.” Gehrman huffed, knowing that his refusal to lose a layer of clothing earned him as many stares as his brutal practices. But he couldn’t risk a mosquito or other bloodsucking insect flying up and drinking his blood. That would only spell disaster. “And I understand that you’ve started buying cars.”

“Yes,” Gehrman nodded. “I’ve discovered that there are different types of vehicles better suited for certain terrains than others.” He hummed, “I’ve been thinking of buying my own bullhead. Would it be worth it?”

“I…am unsure,” Ozpin said after a moment. “You’d have to train for a pilot’s license, obviously. And there are older models that you can buy relatively cheap. But the main issue would be storage.”

“I have more than enough space,” he replied. At the start, he’d been wary of giving the Little Ones his newly acquired car the first time they’d clamored for it. But they sucked it—and the other five vehicles he’d purchased—down into the void as readily and easily as a pair of pants. They even cleaned the vehicles for him, to his pleasant surprise (something he rewarded with a few pints of how own blood).

“Certainly. But there are procedures that must be done. Inspections to regularly undergo. You can’t just say, ‘Oh, don’t worry, my Semblance takes care of all that.’ That just doesn’t fly.”

Huffing at the jest, the First Hunter said, “Perhaps I will not procure my own bullhead. But I shall look into getting a pilot’s license.”

“You should. Personally, I believe every Huntsman should be a qualified pilot, but it _is_ a very heavy investment of time that could, possibly, be better spent elsewhere.”

“How does one gain a pilot’s license?” he asked.

“Any sizable airport will have pilots that offer lessons. Or you could go through one of the Academies.”

“Perhaps later then,” At Ozpin’s hum, the pair fell into silence. Until another topic bloomed to life in Gehrman’s mind.

“Ozpin,” he said, “you’ve warned me away from Anima on the grounds that there are clans of bandits running around everywhere.”

“I have,” the man said neutrally.

“Yet, I find myself worried that, were I to continually avoid the continent, it would encourage criminal Huntsmen to congregate there.”

“Well—”

“Also,” he said, cutting of Ozpin’s response, “I’ve looked into it, and only a relatively small portion of the continent is under the control of bandits. So, I could simply avoid that part of the country, could I not?”

Something he’d said must have annoyed Ozpin, because he was silent for a long while before biting out, “You’re not wrong.”

Gehrman narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a frown, “What are you not telling me, Ozpin?”

There was a long, drawn out sigh on the other end of the call. “It is not my place to say,” his fellow man of the Cosmos said evenly.

“Whose is it? Someone I know?” He hoped not. Gehrman could count that number in one hand.

“…No,” Ozpin forcefully declared. “No, we are not doing this now. Put Anima out of your mind until you end your visit to Atlas.” Gehrman scoffed. “I’m serious,” Ozpin was glaring, no doubt, “I’m not doing this to be difficult, but in an effort to spare certain people unnecessary pain.”

“My heart goes out to these unknown people,” even if he probably knew at least one of them, “but I will not allow others to be physically harmed to spare a few hearts emotional turmoil.”

Ozpin chuckled, “That’s very admirable.” He sighed, “Regardless, let me worry about Anima. You just go ahead and…give the Atlesians a headache to rival mine.”

At that, Gehrman smirked, “Of course.”

/+/+/+/+/

He and Ozpin maintained a few more minutes of polite conversation before the pilot called to say they would be landing shortly. He ended the call, rising to his feet as the vehicle landed at the city of Yuletide, a major port city on the western edge of the continent.

He couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh as a tall man in military regalia flanked by a dozen-or-so armed men and women were revealed as the bullhead’s platform lowered. He strolled down, arching a brow at the man in charge. “James Ironwood, I presume?”

“General Ironwood,” the man growled.

“Ah,” Gehrman bowed, maintaining his smirk, “do forgive me.”

Ironwood’s nostrils flared, his chest expanding with his rising anger. “I don’t know how you’ve gotten away with your savagery, but it stops here and now.”

“Does it really?”

“Yes, it does!” Ironwood stomped forward, face set into a snarl. Gehrman had to admit, it was impressive that, upon realizing that Gehrman was a full head taller than him, Ironwood did not falter. “Atlas is a lawful kingdom with law-abiding citizens.”

“Ah,” Gehrman’s smile grew mocking, “then my trip through the countryside should be a short one.” Ironwood’s face colored, his blue eyes growing cold as ice. Gehrman shifted his gaze to the soldiers. Some of them wore black, non-descript uniforms with face-concealing helmets. A few, however, were dressed differently. They did not wear helmets—allowing Gehrman to see their fearful or suspicious expressions—and they all wore uniforms that were a combination of red, white, and blue. Those ones were a cut above the normal rank-and-file, he could see.

He took a moment to ingrain their uniforms into his memory—it would do to keep an eye out for them.

Turning back to Ironwood, he tipped his hat, “A pleasure,” and walked onward.

“Gehrman!” Ironwood barked. The First Hunter stopped, looking over his shoulder with a stare. “I’m watching you.”

Rolling his eyes, Gehrman continued on his way.

/+/+/+/+/

James was fuming. That bastard had the audacity to _roll his eyes_! As if his murderous rampages were nothing more than a silly game! He forced himself to take a deep breath. He had to be calm. Acting out in rage never solved anything.

He had no idea what the hell Headmaster Ozpin was thinking, letting Gehrman cut bloody swathes through Sanus. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But he wouldn’t let it happen in Atlas. They had enough problems without adding a psychopath that exploited the law to fulfill his perverse desires.

He turned around, barking out, “Ace Ops, step forward!” Three men and three women stepped forward. He turned to Eliza Marsh—the current leader of the Ace Ops—and said, “I want at least two pairs of eyes on that man at all times. If he so much as toes the line, you are to arrest him and bring him to Atlas to be tried and punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Yes sir!” the elite soldiers nodded; eyes resolute. It was only then that James let himself relax. They’d see their mission done. And maybe then, the people of Remnant could rest easy.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: How Jacques Schnee came into power is so fucking weird. There isn’t enough time in the day for me to go over all the problems I have with _that_ clusterfuck of a backstory. Regardless, be sure to leave a review. Later. **


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18:

Watchful Eyes

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth **

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

**/+/+/+/+/**

“He’s just…buying coats,” Elm Ederne mumbled as she stared down at their target. After General Ironwood left to return to the city of Atlas, Captain Eliza was quick to split everyone up into groups to best deal with the Gehrman situation. It just so happened that the captain has chosen to take the first watch of the man, choosing Elm and Luka Bolas to join her.

Luka grunted, leaning against the wall of the rooftop they were stationed. “This _is_ the coldest kingdom. And considering that he prefers to travel between,” the operative gulped, “uh…dropping off his bounties…it only makes sense that he be prepared to spend time away from towns and settlements.”

“Good insight,” Captain Eliza marched up behind them, “but while it’ll be helpful, we don’t need to get inside this…man’s…head. Just observe his actions while he’s here.”

“Big use of manpower,” Luke noted.

“General Ironwood and I believe the cost is worth it.” Elm pursed her lips at that. Captain Eliza noticed her gesture, cocking a brow in response, “Something to say?”

Elm stood at attention, “Yes, Ma’am!” Luka snickered, and she felt very self-conscious all of a sudden.

Captain Marsh cracked a smile, “At ease, Elm. You’re one of the Ace Ops, now. While, yes, you are a rookie, and I am your captain, we’re all more-or-less on even footing. Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.”

Elm relaxed, a smile gracing her own features, “Thank you, captain—Eliza,” she amended at the mock-frown sent her way. “It’s just…this isn’t our job, right? We’re supposed to go out and wipe out the worst Grimm that plague Atlas not…babysit a wackjob.”

Luka and the captain nodded at her words. The latter said, “That’s a fair thought. I brought it up myself with General Ironwood.”

“What did he say?” Elm asked.

Eliza’s eyes darkened, “He gave me the Grimm statistics of the settlements that Gehrman visited in Vale and Vacuo.”

Elm gulped, “I take it they weren’t good?”

“…They were not.” Her captain started to pace, a scowl on her face. “I don’t know if you two realize it, but Atlas is both lucky and unlucky in terms of Grimm attacks. We get a lot of the big ones—Geists, Goliaths, Teryx’s and such—but not a lot of small ones. Below a certain size, Grimm, thank the stars, can’t operate in the cold.” She took a short breath, “The other kingdoms aren’t so lucky. They’re much more temperate. They get big ones, sure, but they also hordes upon hordes of smaller Grimm. _That’s_ the main source of concern with Grimm in the other kingdoms—the dozens—hundreds—of Grimm that roam the lands.”

Elm never really considered how the other Kingdoms dealt with the Grimm. For sure, she learned about Grimm behavior across the world back when she was an Academy student, but she never planned on leaving Atlas—even for the Vytal festivals—and as such put those facts out of her mind. She was beginning to regret those decisions.

“I’m not going to bore you with all the minute details,” Eliza continued, “but I will say that after Gehrman…visited…a settlement, those settlements were quickly accosted by a greater amount of Grimm—hordes of Beowolves and Ursa. Give you one guess as to why.” Elm shivered—how could one man instill so much negative emotion? “Not enough to break through the AG barriers, thank the gods, but enough to make residents hole up and hire _permanent_ Huntsmen to clear out the roads.”

Elm gulped, and Luka let loose a low whistle. Permanent Huntsmen were _expensive_ on small settlements—most of the time they had to put any and all their spare money into keeping them on. They could also get possessive of ‘their’ towns and try and scare off freelancers. A messy practice that Atlas recently abolished in favor of (somewhat forcibly, she could admit) conscripting every native Huntsman into the military. It didn’t stop foreign Huntsmen, like Gehrman, from coming in and operating in the Kingdom—but they were…discouraged from operating without joining the military on at least a temporary basis. The fact that General Ironwood hadn’t even broached that with the man spoke wonders of how eager he was to get the Butcher of Sanus off of the continent.

“Thus,” Eliza cleared her throat, bringing Elm’s attention back to her, “We’re going to give Gehrman absolutely _no_ reason to visit the settlements.”

Elm nodded fervently—keep Sanus’s problem in Sanus—though Luka frowned. “You keep saying that but…isn’t that illegal? Keeping a Huntsman—nominal he may be—from entering a Settlement? He’s not a criminal. Technically, he hasn’t broken any laws.”

“No,” Eliza growled, fire in her eyes, “but the man’s a creature of habit, like all crazies. He avoids entering settlements and towns if he can help it, preferring to camp out in the wilderness.”

Elm pursed her lips, “But…what about snowstorms? Wouldn’t that give him a good reason to rest at settlements?”

“Well,” Eliza huffed, “it’s a good thing snowstorm season has already passed.” Elm exchanged a glance with Luka. Their captain was being…very optimistic about Gehrman’s lack of care for himself. She then hummed, jerking her head forward, “Looks like he’s done.”

Elm turned around. Indeed, Gehrman had exited the store, wearing a new gray parka, the hood down and showing off shoulder-length brown hair (Elm didn’t see any bags, and attributed that to his storage Semblance). They tabled their conversation in favor of keeping track of him once again.

He meandered through the streets—the populace wisely giving him a wide berth—before coming to his next destination—a vehicle dealership. The smiling salesman that walked over to him either had balls of steel or had no idea who he was approaching. After that it got, well, boring. The salesman led Gehrman to several different vehicles—mainly snowmobiles and trucks specifically created to traverse the Atlesian tundra.

Things finally got interesting when Gehrman bought four vehicles—two trucks and two snowmobiles, all a singular, steel-gray—at once. Given the salesman slack jawed expression, he paid every Lien upfront.

“Damn,” Luka whistled as the salesman and a couple others drove the vehicles out front. “That’s a lot of money he’s throwing around.”

“Blood money,” Eliza spat, “Half of it probably came from the people he chopped up.” Elm doubted the guys he stalked through the wilderness had much in the way of cold hard cash but kept quiet. Eliza _said_ they were all on even footing, but she saw no reason to give them extra reasons to raz the rookie.

The salesman started talking with Gehrman again, but the man just ignored him, snapping his fingers and—!

“Holy shit!” Elm shouted as the two trucks and one of the snowmobiles sank into the ground.

“That’s…a very powerful Semblance,” Luka gulped. “Way stronger than any storage Semblance I’ve ever heard of.” Elm nodded; she knew a girl in the Academy whose Semblance could store things like Gehrman, but she couldn’t put anything in there heavier than about fifty pounds, and she had an upper limit (which eventually led to one embarrassing incident in the locker room when she finally reached that limit and they were almost drowned in random stuff). This…this was unreal.

“You could probably hide more than cars in it.” Elm blinked, turning to stare at her captain. Was she really…?

She gulped upon seeing Eliza’s stern glare, “E-Even if he did, it’s not like we could prove it. Right?”

“When he stops pumping Aura into his Semblance everything in storage should fall out, right?”

Elm and Luka exchanged wary looks. The latter licked his lips, “…Man’s gotta sleep sometime, I guess.”

“Then we look for it all then,” Eliza nodded.

“It could just be a portal to a physical location,” Luka replied.

“Gehrman owns no property in any kingdom.”

“Could be an abandoned building, or a cave.” Eliza glared at him. Luka just cocked a brow in reply.

“But” Elm cut in, “even if he was doing,” she shivered, “…that…it’s not illegal, is it?”

“Carrying corpses across Kingdom lines without the proper license is.”

Elm blinked, but Luka narrowed his eyes, “You and General Ironwood are certainly pulling out all the stops.”

Eliza’s face was a blank mask, “We’re not willing to let any stone be unturned.”

Elm felt her heart leap into her throat. This…wasn’t what she signed up for. She could understand wanting to keep an eye out on a violent Huntsman, but this was…beyond her job description.

Still, she had her orders.

She turned back to Gehrman. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but he just climbed onto the remaining snowmobile, started it up, and drove down the snowy road. She called out to Eliza, “Looks like he’s leaving.”

The captain grunted, “Heading north…like we thought.”

“Thought what?” Luka asked

“There’s word that a bounty—someone by the name of Rita Amarillo—is hiding out in an abandoned town about twenty miles up north.”

Luka arched a brow, “You sent the others up north, right?” At her nod, he said, “Guess we better let them know.”

/+/+/+/+/

Clover grinned as he laid his cards down on the table, “Pay up!”

Marrow sighed, tossing his cards on the table. Lila had a much more vocal reaction. “Fuck you!” she shouted, shooting up to her feet, “You used your bullshit Semblance, didn’t you?!”

“I did not!” Clover chuckled, collecting his winnings (two-hundred and fifty Lien). “You just have a terrible bluff.”

“It is pretty bad,” Marrow nodded. “The muscles in your neck do this little twitch like you swallowed something foul. Probably the bullshit you keep trying to spew.”

Lila just scowled, flipping them both off.

After securing his winnings, Clover said, “How’s the drone doing?” That, thankfully, wiped the sneer off his teammate’s face.

Lila moved to the northeastern corner of the room, where the drone interface was set-up. They were given four drones to work with, two of them currently tracking Gehrman as he drove a snowmobile through Atlas’s Tundra. The video feed hadn’t changed in the hour since they last checked it—it was just Gehrman driving through the snow.

“Almost feel bad for the guy,” Lila shook her head. “Driving all the way through the snow looking for people to kill? That’s no life.”

“I don’t think he’s specifically _seeking_ to kill people,” Marrow replied.

“But he does end up killing a lot of people,” Clover added, prompting a shrug from his Faunus teammate.

“Hear Ironwood tell it,” Marrow chuckled, “Gehrman’s like some Fairy Tale monster out to string us up by our toes and drain us of our blood.”

“You disagree?” Clover asked with a cocked brow.

“I’m not saying he isn’t dangerous,” Marrow sharply replied. “But I think the General’s let his hateboner for this guy get a little _too_ big.”

“Can you blame him?” Lila asked. “You heard what he’s been doing in Sanus! Beheading and crippling dozens of people. Driving around with bodies and heads stuffed in the trunk of a car.”

“But he’s only killed or otherwise harmed felons,” Clover added. “Ex-Huntsmen at that.”

“Exclusively, Ex-Huntsmen, from what I’ve gathered,” Marrow added. “Save for some mercenary a few months back, but that was to save someone. So he’s, you know, killing ‘bad guys’.”

“They’re still people,” Lila frowned. “We’re not savages, we hold trials for our criminals.”

Marrow snorted, “The whole ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive’ thing behind bounties is a pretty big indicator of what the court systems think of those people’s innocence.”

Lila stalled for a moment, before crossing her arms, “…Well, then we should change the bounty system.”

“Sure,” Marrow laughed, “and Atlas will promote equality between Humans and Faunus.” He sent her a flat look, “We’re not politicians, Lila, we’re soldiers. We don’t create or change the law, we enforce it.”

“Even against a man that hasn’t broken the law?” Clover asked.

“And _there’s_ the rub!” Lila sighed, dropping onto a chair. “Even if Gehrman disembowels someone and dances wears their intestines like a scarf, so long as there’s a bounty out on them, it’s legal. So, we have to try and catch him doing something else and string him up for that.” Marrow shivered all of a sudden, and Lila asked, “What, too morbid?”

“No,” he shook his head, “just…realizing that I’m a Faunus soldier following an Atleasian general’s orders to punish a man for a minor infraction.” Clover and Lila both grimaced. That…was kind of a bad thing.

“How,” Lila began, “are the Faunus reacting to Gehrman’s…actions. He’s killing them too, criminals they may be.”

“Ok,” Marrow sniffed, “first of all, are you assuming that I, being a Faunus, have an ear to the pulse of the entirety of my people’s thoughts?”

“…No,” Lila replied, a hint of a blush on her face.

“Ah, I’m just pulling your leg!” Marrow smirked, his wolf-tail wagging. “Though, for future reference, outside of my family and closest friends, most Faunus aren’t fond of me.”

“Why?” Clover asked—he’d known Faunus to be fairly tight-knit, especially in Atlas.

Marrow sent him an amused look, “I’m a Faunus that became a Huntsman—”

“There’s loads of Faunus Huntsmen,” Lila cut in.

“—via Atlas Academy—”

“You’re not unique in that,” Clover said with a frown.

“—and stayed. Voluntarily,” Marrow finished, smirking at their frowns. “Most faunus don’t think too highly of us that do that.”

“I can…see that,” Clover replied with a gulp. Thinking on it, most of the Faunus he’d gone to the academy with either transferred just before the final year—just in time to avoid the draft into the army—or moved out of the country after completing their first tour of duty (two years).

“But my family still likes me,” Marrow said with a huff, “and people still like them. So, to get back to your original question, Faunus are kind of okay with him.”

“What?” Clover and Lila said together.

“That’s just what I’ve heard,” Marrow shrugged. “By all means, he’s an alright guy. Not particularly, you know, nice, but polite. You know, underneath the whole ‘human guillotine’ thing he’s got going on.”

“When he isn’t chopped off heads, he’s cutting off people’s limbs!” Lila shouted. “Isn’t it a big thing for a Faunus’s trait limbs to get cut off? I’ve look through the reports—he’s chopped off hooves, webbed feet, paws, horned heads, cut people by the gills!”

“He does the same thing to his human bounties. Hell,” Marrow shrugged, “I’ve heard that a few people praise him for his ‘egalitarian work ethic’. I’m…not entirely sure they’re kidding.”

Clover and Lila stared at their teammate with wide eyes. Clover licked his lips, “They…support him?”

“I didn’t say that,” Marrow glared at him. “Don’t lump all Faunus together like that! It’s a weird situation, there’s a lot of opinions out there!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Clover held up his hands. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“You’re telling me,” Marrow scoffed. “…I’ll take the watch of the drones for tonight, you two get some shuteye.” Clover rapidly nodded his head. Lila was more stoic, just getting up from her chair and gesturing at it.

Marrow nodded, sitting down and shifting closer to the monitors. He then jerked forward, grabbing the screen with both hands. “Uh…guys? What time is it?”

Lila arched a brow, looking at her watch, “Uh…six-thirty.”

“Sundown’s in twenty minutes, right?”

“Just about, why?”

Marrow licked his lips, “He’s swapping snowmobiles.”

Clover and Lila blinked. “…What?”

“He’s swapping vehicles,” Marrow repeated. Clover and Lila crowded Marrow, eyes widening upon seeing that, yes, Gehrman was using his Semblance to store his current vehicle, starting up a new one and continuing on.

Clover gulped, “…Lulu, Marci, and Cat are still looking for that Huntswoman?”

“Rita Amarillo,” Lila nodded. “Last I hear they’d cornered her in an abandoned school,” Lila said.

“Better tell them to hurry up and put her in detention.”

/+/+/+/+/

“Lulu, you fucking bitch!” Rita Amarillo shouted as she was dragged, in chains, up the Bullhead. “Tried to blow my fucking arm off! You treat all your exes like this or am I—” her rant was cut short by the Bullhead ramp snapping shut.

Catherine bit her lower lip, turning to Lulu, who was glaring down at her feet, face a touch pale. She moved closer, “Hey, Lulu, you—”

“I’m fine!” she spat. Catherine exchanged a disbelieving look with Marci, after which Lulu rolled her eyes, “Really, girls, I’m fine. She’s just some woman I used to sleep with back in the Academy.”

“And you just arrested her,” Marci said. Catherine resisted the urge to roll her eyes—tell them something they didn’t know.

Lulu shrugged, “It’s fine. I probably should have said something when I recognized her name, but I’m an Ace Op.” She looked up, still a bit pale, but there was fire in her eyes. “I’m given orders and I follow through with them.”

Catherine exchanged another look with Marci, who just shrugged, so she let it go.

The Bullhead rose in the air but didn’t fully take-off. Rather suddenly, it turned on the spotlight, shining on a ridge to the east.

Catherine turned, heart leaping into her throat as a man on a steel-gray snowmobile drove into the light. Gehrman, she knew, even if his face was obscured by his hood and a pair of black, reflective goggles.

Catherine and her teammates stood at the ready—and she could see the Bullhead slowly fly away from Gehrman, light still trained on him. So far, the man hadn’t proved violent towards anyone without a bounty on their head—but General Ironwood had warned them to be cautious if confronted by him.

Thankfully, nothing came of the encounter. Gehrman just turned his snowmobile around, driving off into the night.

“…Gods,” Marci sighed, putting a hand over her chest, “we’re going to going full-tilt as long as he’s here, aren’t we?”

“Yup,” Catherine replied.

“Fuck,” Lulu growled, “I’m gonna need a drink.” For more than one reason, Catherine suspected.

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: First day in Atlas! Looking to be a lovely little vacation for Gehrman. Be sure to leave a review. Later. **


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19:

Confrontations

**Bloodborne is property of Fromsoftware. RWBY is property of Rooster Teeth**

"Talking"

"_Mental Speech"_

/+/+/+/+/

James pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to crush his Scroll in his hands. "No, Ma'am, he's currently being transferred to a correctional facility, whereupon he shall be permanently incarcerated at the Sackgasse Mines."

"You're placing my nephew _where_?!" the noblewoman screeched.

"With one-fourth of Atlas's criminal population—where he belongs!" he had the sense to wince as the words burst forth from his lips.

"How _dare_ you!" the woman shrieked. "Who do you think you are?! Ironwood, was it? You're that upstart, nouveau ri—" he ended with call with a dismissive grunt.

"Best part of the job," James whirled around to fine Celia smirking as she leaned against the doorframe. He cocked a brow when she lifted up and shook a bottle of liquor.

"Is that for me?"

She smirked, striding forward, and placing the bottle—some kind of scotch—on his desk, "When you told me you'd be stuck in meetings with a bunch of elites, I figured you might want something to lift your spirits."

"…Thanks," James said, pulling a couple of shot glasses out from his drawer. After Celia poured out the drinks, he was tempted to just grab the bottle out of her hand. But he didn't—he wouldn't let this little…road bump drive him that far. He settled for draining his glass in one gulp. The burn down his throat was actually pleasant. "How're things on your end?" he asked.

Celia grew pensive. "…Odd," she finally said. "I think we've finally established some sort of…pattern for the earthquakes." James arched a brow as she pulled out her Scroll. "Here's where the first few earthquakes occurred," she said, a few pinpoints appearing on the northern section of a map of Atlas. "And here're the rest." She tapped her Scroll, and dozens of different sized and colored dots—correlating with the strength of the earthquake and the damage caused, respectively—appeared. The first few were fairly eclectic, but after a dozen, James started to see the pattern.

"It's…the earthquakes…they're _moving_ south?"

"It would appear so," Celia nodded. "Valean seismologists have already reported minor tremors in the Sea of Vytal."

James gulped, "Is…Is it some sort of Grimm?" Though Wwhat kind of Grimm could dig as to cause—or even simulate—earthquakes? His mind quickly went to Centinals—Atlas's resident burrowing Grimm. But even if a hundred of them joined together, they wouldn't be able to cause anything close to what the Kingdom had been experiencing.

"The fact that settlements and mining facilities were merely damaged, and not wiped out, would point to all signs being 'no'. Besides, Atlas doesn't have too many burrowing Grimm." That was true. "No, this is just…some strange, natural phenomena, I suppose." She pursed her lips, looking down, "Perhaps it has happened before—I'm still looking into that."

"Good luck," James offered. He wasn't a historian by any means, but even he knew that—until recently—earthquakes in Atlas were uncommon, if occasionally expected, occurrences. Unlike the rest of the Kingdoms, of which only northern Anima received some. Although, that might work in her favor, being isolated events and such.

Unless the last time such a thing happened was before all the Kingdoms started getting their act together and began writing things down. Then she'd be in trouble.

"And what about you?" Celia spoke up, closing her Scroll. "How goes your," her face pinched, "…crusade?"

James grunted, "No need to be polite."

"Good," Celia nodded. "Still, even if you've categorically failed at your self-appointed task," he resisted the urge to growl, "you've managed to detain a great number of criminals roaming the countryside."

"But not the one that matters!"

Celia sniffed, "Oh? He's finally broken a law?" James fixed her a glare. She clicked her tongue, "Oh, don't give me that look! Gehrman's drenched in blood but otherwise clean as a whistle." She glared at him in turn, "Or are you hoping that he might snap and kill some random innocent. No," she held up a hand when he moved to speak, "Don't say anything. Whatever words spill out of your mouth will only fill me with disappointment."

James slammed his fists on his desk, "Well what the hell am I supposed to do?!" He rose to his feet, pacing furiously. "Even with the Ace Ops on the job, Gehrman is still out there, killing people! Exclusively killing people!" He snarled, "That bastard is doing it on purpose! Mocking me!"

"Oh, James," Celia shook her head, "Able to coordinate the single largest incarceration effort in Atlesian history, but still so blind."

"What?" he growled.

His mentor sent him a flat look, "Has it ever occurred to you that Gehrman isn't as evil as you want him to be?"

"Not as—" he spluttered for a moment, before regaining his composure. "He cuts off people's limbs and heads! Carts them around in boxes!"

"I never said he wasn't disturbed—if anything the man needs an extended stay in a mental asylum, not a prison." James snorted. Gehrman wasn't mentally unsound. He saw the gleam in the man's eyes; no, Gehrman knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Relished in it. "But," Celia raised her voice a touch, regaining his attention, "he is not some common cutthroat. You have to admit that, at least."

"He's certainly more cunning than the average criminal," James growled. At her withering glare, he huffed, "…He does have some semblance of propriety." The man knew to never overstay his welcome, at least.

"And he's very selective of his…bounties." Yet another vexing attribute of Gehrman's. James was still looking into it, but he was pretty sure the man was actively going anywhere near bandit hideouts that were unaffiliated with criminal Huntsmen (not that even ex-Huntsmen would associate themselves with such people). Why limit himself to terrorizing the harder targets? Why not go after common scum as well?

James forced himself to a stop, taking a couple deep breaths. He narrowed his eyes at Celia, "Why are you defending him anyway? You can't tell me you approve of what he's doing?"

"No," she spat, a sneer growing on her face, "and I'd thank you to not presume as such again!" James looked away with a blush—blaming the stress of the last few weeks for even thinking of blatantly questioning his superior. "No," Celia shook her head, "I don't approve of his actions, and I won't lie and say that I wouldn't be relieved if he were to die within the next year. But," she sighed, aging a few decades, "I…I trust headmaster Ozpin, and he's assured me that Gehrman can be trusted."

"Why?!" James shouted. "I understand that he's a fellow Headmaster, but what makes his word so binding?"

"Ozpin is wiser than you could ever conceive of," was all Celia said.

"More like senile," he grumbled. Celia narrowed her eyes, but on this, James would not apologize. He didn't owe Ozpin anything.

In the end, Celia shook her head, rising from her seat. "Have a good day, James. And please, don't let this ruin you."

James waited until she left before dropping back into his seat, running a hand through his hair. The sooner he dealt with Gehrman, the better.

/+/+/+/+/

Summer sighed as she stowed her rifle, walking across the yard to the targets. She'd been cleared by her doctor to start weapons practice again a month ago, and even though she'd been told that recovery would be slow (and she may never gain the accuracy she'd had before) it still stung that she'd only hit ten bullseyes since then.

She scowled at the targets as she collected them—only ten bullseyes for the month, then. Gods, she hadn't gotten less than twenty a _week_ since she was sixteen.

At least she could still stab things. As long as they didn't come at her from the left.

"You look pissed."

Summer startled, whirling around to see Tai walking up to her. Her mood lifted, and she closed the distance, letting him lift her up into a kiss. "Where are the girls?"

"Washing up," he let her down, linking arms as they walked back to the house, "Ruby's all excited."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Something about a project for school. She wouldn't tell me what it was—neither would her teacher."

"That's…Frankie Barker, right?" At his nod, she sniffed, "Is she the one that's been asking after Qrow?"

Her husband snorted, "Half the teachers at Signal want to get in his pants."

Summer chuckled, "Anyone stand a chance?"

"Bah," Tai shook his head, "even if they did, he won't try anything in Patch. Everyone knows everyone here."

"Guess that would cramp his Animan 'love-'em-and-leave-'em' style. ," she frowned. "Which brings us to the Raven in the room."

Tai pulled a face, "Not now."

"Not now, obviously," Summer rolled her eyes, "but we _will_ talk about." Ozpin called them with the warning that Gehrman was most likely going to end up killing Raven sooner or later—and perhaps wipe the Branwen tribe off the map. They were all conflicted about that. Perhaps not necessarily about Raven's potential death—which was sad in and of itself—but because of Yang. She…she deserved to know about her birth mother. Even if Raven only barely deserved the title.

Tai sighed, resting his chin atop her head, "Would it be stupid of me to say that I'd always hoped that we would never have to talk about this."

"Yes," Summer replied bluntly. "It wouldn't be fair to Yang." Tai scowled and she responded in turn. "You think I'm looking forward to this? Think I want to tell Yang that I'm not her birth mother? That Raven couldn't have bothered to stay more than a goddamn week before fucking off to Anima?!"

Her husband sighed running a hand down his face, "You're right, I'm sorry…It's not any of our faults, really." He sniffed, "Gehrman, though…"

"_That's_ something we can actually hold off on telling the girls until they're much older." She licked her lips, "Do you think, if we asked, Gehrman would—"

Tai cut her off with a wave of his hand, "I don't want to think about it." Summer opened her mouth but ended up nodding. Instead, she rose to her tiptoes, pressing a light kiss against his lips. He smiled but didn't return the kiss with anything more than a hug.

When they finally entered the house, Ruby all-but ran into them. "Mommy! Daddy! We need help!"

"_You_ need help," Yang replied, not looking up from her schoolbook.

Ruby took a second to stick her tongue out at her sister, before asking, "How's Uncle Qrow our uncle?"

Tai froze, leaving Summer to hastily ask, "How do you mean?"

Ruby nodded, "In school, we were learning about families. About moms and dads and sons and daughters and brothers and sisters and—"

"Take a breath, sweetie," Tai finally said when Ruby started going red in the face.

Their daughter did so, shaking her head. "And, uh, we learned that brothers of your mom and dad are called uncles. And Ms. Barker wants us to make family trees. So how is Qrow our uncle?"

Summer gulped, willing herself not to turn to Tai in panic. Even if she was pushing Tai to fully discuss Raven, this was much too soon for her liking. Still, Summer prided herself on never lying to her children (omissions of truth notwithstanding). Thus, after making sure her voice wouldn't shake, she said, "Well, Qrow's not actually related me or your father." She could feel Tai stiffen beside her, but really, there weren't any good options for them going forward.

Yang perked up at that, and Ruby tilted her head, "Then…why's he our uncle?"

"Well, you know how your father and I went to Beacon together, on a team?" Ruby nodded. "And how Qrow was on our team with us?" Another nod. "Well, that's it. We grew so close to each other that we basically became family."

Ruby blinked. "Is…Is that allowed?"

Tai let out a laugh at that—a touch unhinged, but Ruby didn't seem to notice. "Yes, Ruby. It's allowed. Family," he paused, looking between her, Summer, and Yang, "…It's a lot more than just the people that your directly related to." Ruby beamed, and Summer had to hold back tears.

Yang hummed, leaning back on her hands, "Then, what about that other lady?" And just like that, Summer's blood ran cold once more.

"Who?" Ruby asked, turning to her sister (ignoring the stricken faces on Tai and Summer's faces).

"That lady in the old photos," Yang replied, "The one with red eyes and black hair." Her face pinched, "She kinda looks like Uncle Qrow."

Tai had started to hyperventilate, and Summer found herself staring at Yang. If she could see the similarities between Raven and Qrow—of which there really weren't much—then how long until she saw the similarities Raven and herself? Even now, with her healthy layer of baby fat, Yang had so many of Raven's features. Her chin, the shape of her eyes, the way she moved, even. The only major difference was her eye color and hai—her hair!

"Haircut!" Summer blurted out. Her family startled, but she barreled on, gesturing to Yang, "It's way past time we got you a haircut, young lady!"

Yang's confusion vanished, anger taking its place. She clutched her long, golden locks. "You're not touching my hair!" she shouted.

Tai had finally gained his bearings—though he still looked a touch pale. He crossed his arms, "You need to get it cut—it's getting too long."

Yang shot up to her feet, "No, it's not!"

"Yes, it is."

"It's not!"

"Yes."

"NO!" Yang shouted, stomping her feet. This was around the time she would run into her room until Summer brought over some cookies as a peace-offering. Instead of that, however, Yang's body flashed gold, her eyes turned red, and her hair _caught fire_.

"Gah!" Ruby screamed. "Yang, you're on fire!"

"What?!" Yang shouted, looking down at her body. "Ah! My hair!" And as suddenly as it occurred, the fire vanished, and Yang's eye returned to their normal lilac.

"Yang!" Ruby ran up to her sister, "I think…I think that was your Semblance!"

"My Semblance?" she said in awe. She then paled, "My Semblance burns my hair?!"

"I don't think so," Ruby replied, pulling up a bunch of Yang's hair to eyelevel, "It doesn't look burned."

"Oh, thank the gods," Yang sighed. She then frowned, slapping Ruby's hand down when she started bunching it on her upper lip like a mustache. She smiled, "Wait…that means I can use Aura."

Ruby gasped, "That's right!"

"Let's test it!"

"Get the weapons!"

As the pair ran off, Summer finally felt the strength leave her legs. She stumbled against Tai, taking a short breath. "I might have just made our lives harder."

"Her eyes…" Summer looked up to see that the blood had drained from Tai's face, "Her eyes were like…like Raven's."

Summer gulped—he was right. "Let's…Let's focus on keeping Yang from doing something stupid with her newfound Aura."

A bit of color returned to Tai's face, "Yeah, yeah you're ri—did Ruby say 'get the weapons'?"

Summer nodded, then froze.

"No, no," Ruby's muffled voice called from further in the house, "that's the handle. _This_ is the bludgeon."

"Girls!" Tai shouted, running towards their voices, Summer close behind. Hopefully the excitement over Yang's unlocked abilities would distract the girls until Summer and Tai could find a solution to their Raven problems.

/+/+/+/+/

Clover stared awkwardly as Luka held his head in his hands. "My cousin," he moaned, "my own flesh-and-fucking-blood!" Eliza was patting his back, but she was just staring ahead at nothing. Not surprising, really—she was in the same spot last week, but with an underclassman she used to tutor.

This…This was getting out of hand. Clover hadn't really considered how many Huntsmen turned bad. After the tenth arrest, Clover looked up the numbers. Of the, on average, one-thousand Huntsmen that earned their license every year, maybe two percent, about twenty, taken from all across Remnant, would go on to (explicitly) commit criminal acts. It wasn't a great many but compile that number over the years and that added up to hundreds of criminal Huntsmen.

He could understand why the Kingdom's wouldn't want to advertise that little fact. He just wished they'd already had something in place to deal with it. General Ironwood was putting them to good use but…it wasn't enough.

He walked away from them, shaking his head. Maybe…Maybe he could transfer some of his teammates some vacation days. He hadn't been especially close to anyone during his Academy days, so the odds of him running into something as…harrowing as what his teammates had was low.

"H-Hey! Stop!"

Clover spun on his heel, eyes widening as Luka's cousin—Ulysses, he recalled—leapt over a downed soldier, his body flashing green as he broke his handcuffs. Clover cursed, pulling out Kingfisher; Ulysses must've forcibly broken his aura when they captured him. A risky technique, but when done right, it left one with just enough Aura to make a last-second counterattack.

Something Ulysses was executing now, of all times.

Rearing his weapon back, pulling lightly on the line, he whipped it forward, hook and line flying towards the fleeing criminal. But Ulysses turned around, catching the hook before it could wrap around him. The man's eyes flashed yellow, and electricity travelled down the line, shocking Clover.

He let go of his weapon with a strangled yell. Ulysses pulled Kingfisher toward him. He pulled the line out as far as possible, leaving the pole on the ground and swinging the hook in a wide, lazy circle as he backed away.

Clover cursed his own carelessness, willing his Semblance to its full potential. First, he needed his weapon back. Second, Ulysses needed to go down. He could see that the snow behind Ulysses was uneven, probably icy. All it would take was one misstep and then—

_BANG_

Clover jolted at the sound, eyed widening as Ulysses' throat tore open, blood gushing all over his body and staining the snow red as he dropped to the ground. He thrashed, in the snow, clutching at his throat. But by the time they reached him, he was dead.

"C-Contact!" one of the soldiers shouted, aiming his rifle east.

Clover quickly grabbed Kingfisher—willing himself to ignore the cooling, sticky blood stuck to it—turning to the potential threat. When he saw a tall figure in a gray coat riding a gray snowmobile, he only grew further terrified.

A quick glance revealed that the common soldiers all had their weapons trained on Gehrman, more than a few of them trembling. Luka was staring blankly at Ulysses, and Eliza…she was holding her halberd in a death grip, eyes blazing with fury.

Finally, Gehrman came to a stop in front of them. He pulled off his hood, and let his goggles hang on his neck. He cocked a brow, "Are any of you injured?"

Whatever Clover was expecting to come out of the man's mouth, it wasn't that.

Eliza answered for them. Well, no really answered so much as growled, "What are you doing here?"

"I noticed the Bullhead as I was travelling," he leaned down to his vehicle's compartment, "I was wondering if I could just cut out the middleman and get my payment through you." He straightened up, holding up a head by its limp, blood-stained hair. Clover was certain that his Semblance was the only reason its eyes were closed, preventing it from staring at them with its lifeless gaze. "I saw a commotion as I was approaching; looking through binoculars revealed it to be that one," he gestured to Ulysses, "escaping your custody. I decided to provide assistance." He shrugged, dropping the head back in the compartment "However, I can see that you're all…distracted, so I'll take my leave." He closed the compartment, putting back on his hood and goggle. Before he turned his vehicle back on, however, he said "I'll also be taking fifty-percent of that one's bounty."

That finally got a reaction out of one of them. "What?" Luka whispered.

"The man I killed," he said with a dismissive wave. "Considering that you let him go, I think it only fair that I receive an even portion of the bounty."

Clover could see the exact moment Luka's rage hit the boiling point. He tensed, gritting his teeth as veins struck out on his forehead. He turned, hands diving for the daggers attached to his belt.

Clover was on him in seconds, holding his arms down. Luka struggled, but Clover held him in place, shaking his head. Thankfully, Luka's anger subsided—though he didn't like the utterly defeated look on his friend's face as he turned back to his cousin's corpse.

Gehrman huffed, "Top-notch operation you're running here."

At that moment, Clover was certain Eliza would snap her weapon in two. Instead, she stomped forward, getting right into Gehrman's face. "I don't care to understand what sick thoughts go through your head, what games you think you're playing, but you better believe me when I say that it's coming to an end!"

Gehrman chuckled—_chuckled_!—and said, "If the last few weeks are any indication, I doubt I'm in any real trouble." Ignoring the furious glare Eliza sent his way, Gehrman turned on his snowmobile, turning around and driving off to…do whatever, Clover couldn't find it in himself to care.

His Scroll blared, then; along with Eliza's and Luka's. But the former was still glaring at the direction Gehrman drove off, shaking with rage, and the latter hadn't torn his eyes away from his deceased cousin. Thus, Clover answered his call.

"Clover!" Marci cried, "Fucking finally! Listen, Gehrman's—"

"He just left us," he cut her off.

Marci sucked in a breath, "You guys okay?"

Clover looked around him, sighing miserably, "No."

/+/+/+/+/

**A/N: Sub-plots galore! Be sure to leave a review. Later.**


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